We two : a novel

4m^m

^'

*<viS;^:^

wm

^ OgjS^. .^^fc

>^- T) i

■*i^ H^v ■<^i^|k

>3V) it

•^r^^^

>:y6 V

^Di^

^>>'>^

"^fj^ •V^.^MI

^ 3^Y^ ■ -

lii^.-'aiS

y ii ^

l^e>^:M

^i^t^.-^

■ j .-i;^

i"_.)^

'•^ ••^r>

\^.>s>

^'niL^,

>r.>:>

~^' "*

•' »r

1'

^J-

:> ^

-^

a I B RARY

OF THE
U NIVER5ITY
Of ILLINOIS

B34we
v.l

CENTRAL CIRCULATION AND BOOKSTACKS

The person borrowing this material is re-
sponsible for its renewal or return before
the Latest Date stamped below. You may
be charged a minimum fee of $75.00 for
each non-returned or lost item.

Theft, mutilation, or defacement of library materials can be
causes for student disciplinary action. All materials owned by
the University of Illinois Library are the property of the State
of Illinois and are protected by Article 16B of Illinois Criminal
Law and Procedure.

TO RENEW, CALL (217) 333-8400.
University of Illinois Library at Urbana-Champaign

z

DEC 2 8 1999

When renewing by phone, write new due date
below previous due date. L162

AVE T A^r"o^^

A NOVEL

BT

EDNA LYALL

AUTHOR OF "DONOVAN," ETC.

"Men are so made as to resent nothing more impatiently than to be
treated as criminal for opinions which they deem true/'— Spinoza.

" We two are a multitude. "—Ovid.

IN THREE VOLUMES.
VOL. L

LONDON :
HUEST AND BLACKETT, PUBLISHERS,

13, GREAT MARLBOROUGH STREET.

1884.

All rights reserved.

F^RO c o isr.

1871—1884.
"Knowledge by suffering entereth."

^

"W^E TTVO.

CHAPTER I.

BRIAN FALLS IN LOVE.

Still humanity grows dearer,

Being learned the more.

Jean Ingelow.

There are three things in this world which deserve no
quarter — Hypocrisy, Pharisaism, and Tyranny.

F. Robertson.

People who have been brought up in the
country, or in small places where e"^ry neigh-
bour is known by sight, are apt to think that
life in a large town must lack many of the
interests which they have learned to find in
their more limited communities. In a some-
VOL. I. B

2 WE TWO.

what bewildered wa}^, they gaze at the shifting
crowd of strange faces, and wonder whether it
would be possible to feel completely at home
where all the surroundings of life seem ever
changing and unfamiliar.

But those who have lived long in one quarter
of London, or of any other large town, know
that there are in reality almost as many links
between the actors of the town life-drama as
between those of the country life-drama.

Silent recognitions pass between passengers
who meet day after day in the same morning
or evening train, on the way to or from work ;
the faces of omnibus conductors grow familiar ;
we learn to know perfectly well on what day of
the week and at what hour the well-known
organ-grinder will make his appearance, and in
what street Ave shall meet the city clerk or the
care-worn little daily governess on their way
to office or school.

It so happened that Brian Osmond, a young-
doctor who had not been very long settled hi
the Bloomsbury regipns^ had an engagement
which took him every afternoon down Gower

BRIAN FALLS IN LOVE. 3

Street, and here many faces had grown fam-
iHar to him. He invariably met the same
sallow-faced postman, the same nasal-voiced
milkman, the same pompous-looking man with
the bushy whiskers and the shiny black bag, on
his way home from the city. But the only
passenger in Avhom he took any interest was a
certain bright-faced little girl whom he gener-
ally met just before the Montague Place cross-
ing. He always called her his 'little girl,'
though she was by no means little in the or-
dinary acceptation of the word, being at least
sixteen, and rather tall for her years. But
there was a sort of freshness and naivete and
youthfulness about her which made him use
that adjective. She usually carried a pile of
books in a strap, so he conjectured that she
must be coming from school, and, ever since he
had first seen her, she had worn the same
rough blue serge dress, and the same quaint little
fur hat. In other details however, he could
never tell in the least how he should find her.
She seemed to have a mood for every diSij,
Sometimes she would be in a great hurry and

B 2

4 WE TWO.

would almost run past him ; sometimes she
would saunter along in the most unconvention-
al way, glancing from time to time at a book
or a paper ; sometimes her eager face would
look absolutely bewitching in its brightness ;
sometimes scarcely less bewitching in a con-
suming anxiety which seemed unnatural in one
so young.

One rainy afternoon in November, Brian was
as usual making his way down Gower Street,
his umbrella held low to shelter him from the
driving rain which seemed to come in all direc-
tions. The milkman's shrill voice was still far
in the distance, the man of letters was still
at work upon knockers some way off, it was
not yet time for his little girl to make her
appearance, and he was not even thinking of
her, when suddenly his umbrella was nearly
knocked out of his hand by coming violently
into collision with another umbrella. Brought
thus to a sudden stand, he looked to see who
it was who had charged him with such violence,
and found himself face to face with his unknown
friend. He had never been quite so close to

BRIAN FALLS IX LOVE. 5

her before. Her quaint face had always fascin-
ated him, but on nearer view he thought it the
loveliest face he had ever seen— it took his
heart by storm.

It was framed in soft, silky masses of dusky
auburn hair which hung over the broad white
forehead, but at the back was scarcely longer
than a boy^s. The features, though not regu-
lar, were delicate and piquant, the usual faint
rose-flush on the cheeks deepened noAv to car-
nation, perhaps because of the slight contretemps,
perhaps because of some deeper emotion — Brian
fancied the latter, for the clear, golden-brown
eyes that were lifted to his seemed bright
either with indignation or with unshed tears.
To-day it was clear that the mood was not
a happy one : his little girl was in trouble.

' I am very sorry,' she said, looking up at
him, and speaking in a low, musical voice, but
with the unembarrassed frankness of a child.
' I really wasnH thinking or looking, it was very
careless of me.'

Brian of course took all the blame to him-
self, and apologised profusely ; but though he

6 WE TWO.

would have given much to detain her, if only
for a moment, she gave him no opportunity, but
with a slight inclination passed rapidly on. He
stood quite still, watching her till she was out
of sight, aware of a sudden change in his life.
He was a busy, hard-working man, not at all
given to dreams, and it was no dream that he
was in now. He knew perfectly well that he
had met his ideal, had spoken to her and she
to him ; that somehow in a single moment
a new world had opened out to him. For
the first time in his life he had fallen
in love.

The trifling occurrence had made no great
impression on the ' little girl ' herself. She was
rather vexed with herself for the carelessness,
but a much deeper trouble was filling her heart.
She soon forgot the passing interruption and
the brown-bearded man with the pleasant grey
eyes who had apologised for what was quite
her fault. Something had gone wrong that
day, as Brian had surmised ; the eyes grew
brighter, the carnation flush deepened as she
hurried along, the delicate lips closed with a

BRIAN FALLS IN LOYE. 7

curiously hard expression, the hands were
clasped with unnecessary tightness round the
umbrella and the handle of the book-strap.

She passed up Guilford Square, but did not
turn into any of the old decayed houses ; her
home was far less imposing. At the corner of
the square there is a narrow opening which
leads into a sort of blind alley paved with
grirc flag-stones. Here, facing a high blank
wall, are four or five very dreary houses. She
entered one of these, put down her wet um-
brella in the shabby little hall, and opened the
door of a barely-furnished room, the walls
of which were, however, lined with books. Be-
side the fire was the one really comfortable
piece of furniture in the room, an Ilkley couch,
and upon it lay a very wan-looking invalid,
who, as the door opened, glanced up with a
smile of welcome.

* Why, Erica, you are home early to-day.
How is that V

' Oh, I donH know,' said Erica, tossing down
her books in a way which showed her mother
that she was troubled about something. ' I

8 WE TWO.

Suppose I tore along at a gcfod rate, and
there was no temptation to stay at the Higli
School.'

* Come and tell me about it,' said the mother,
gently, ' what has gone wrong, little one V

' Everything !' exclaimed Erica, vehemently.
* Everything always does go wrong with us
and always will, I suppose. I wish you had
never sent me to school, mother ; I wish I need
never see the place again !'

* But till to-day you enjoyed it so much.'

* Yes, the classes and the being with Ger-
trude. But that will never be the same again.
It's just this, mother, I'm never to speak to
Gertrude again— to have nothing more to do
Avith her.'

' Who said so ? And why V

' Why ? Because I'm myself,' said Erica,
with a bitter little laugh. ' How I can help it,
nobody seems to think. But Gertrude's father
has come back from Africa and was horri-
fied to learn that we were friends, made
her promise never to speak to me again, and
made her write this note about it. Look !'

BRIAN FALLS IN LOVE. 9

and she took* a crumpled envelope from ber
pocket.

The mother read the note in silence, and an
expression of pain came over her face. Erica,
who was very impetuous, snatched it away from
her when she saw that look of sadness.

' Don't read the horrid thing !' she exclaimed,
crushing it up in her hand. ' There, we will
burn it !' and she threw it into the fire with a
vehemence which somehow relieved her.

' You shouldn't have done that,' said her
mother. * Your father will be sure to want to
see it.'

'No, no, no,' cried Erica, passionately. 'He
must not know, you must not tell him, mother.'

* Dear child, have you not learnt that it is
impossible to keep anything from him ! He will
find out directly that something is wrong.'

* It will grieve him so, he must not hear it,'
said Erica. ' He cares so much for what hurts
us. Oh, why are people so hard and cruel?
Why do they treat us like lepers ? It isn't all
because of losing Gertrude — I could bear that if
there were some real reason, if she went away

10 WE TWO.

or died. But there's no reason ! It's all preju-
dice and bigotry and iujustice — it's that which
makes it sting so.'

Erica was not at all given to tears, but there
was now a sort of choking in her throat, and a
sort of dimness in her eyes, whioc made her
rather hurriedly settle down on the floor in her
own particular nook beside her mother's couch,
where her face could not be seen. There was a
silence. Presently the mother spoke, stroking
back the wavy, auburn hair with her thin white
hand.

' For a long time I have dreaded this for you,
Erica. I was afraid you didn't realise the sort
of position the world will give you. Till lately
you have seen scarcely any but our own people,
but it can hardly be, darling, that you can go
on much longer without coming into contact
with others, and then, more and more, you must
realise that you are cut off from much that other
girls may enjoy.'

' Why V questioned Erica, ' why can't they be
friendly? Why must they cut us off from
everything?'

BRIAN FALLS IN LOVE. 11

' It does seem uDJust, but you must remember
that we belong to an unpopular minority.'

' But if I belonged to the larger party I would
at least be just to the smaller,' said Erica.
' How can they expect us to think their system
beautiful wheA the very first thing they show
us is hatred and meanness. Oh, if I belonged
to the other side I would show them how differ-
ent it might be.'

' I believe you would,' said the mother, smil-
ing a little at the idea, and at the vehemence of
the speaker. ' But, as it is, Erica, I am afraid
you must school yourself to endure. After all,
I fancy you will be glad to share so soon in your
father's vexations.'

' Yes,"* said Erica, pushing back the hair from
her forehead, and giving herself a kind of mental
shaking, ' I am glad of that. After all, they
can't spoil the best part of our lives ! I shall
go into the garden to get rid of my bad temper ;
it doesn't rain now.'

She struggled to her feet^ picked up the little
fur hat which had fallen off, kissed her mother,,
and went out of the room.

12 WE TWO.

The ' garden ' was Erica's favourite resort,
her own particular property. It was about
fifteen feet square, and no one but a Londoner
would have bestowed on it so dignified a name.
But Erica, who was of an inventive turn, had
contrived to make the most of the little patch of
ground, had induced ivy to grow on the ugly
brick walls, and with infinite care and satisfac-
tion had nursed a few flowers and shrubs into
tolerably healthy though smutty life. In one
of the corners Tom Craigie, her favourite cousin,
had put up a rough wooden bench for her, aud
here she read and dreamed as contentedly as if
her ' garden ground ' had been fairyland. Here,
too, she invariably came when anything had gone
wrong, when the endless troubles about money
which had weighed upon her all her life became
a little less bearable than usual, or when some
act of discourtesy or harshness to her father
had roused in her a tingling, burning sense of
indignation.

Erica was not one of those people who take
life easily : things went very deeply with her.
In spite of her brightness and vivacity, in spite

BRIAN FALLS IN LOVE. 13

of her readiness to see the ludicrous in every-
thing, and her singularly quick perceptions,
she was also very keenly alive to other and
graver impressions.

Her anger had passed, but still, as she paced
round and round her small domain, her heart
was very heavy. Life seemed perplexing to
her ; but her mother had somehow struck the
right key-note when she had spoken of the
vexations which might be shared. There was
something inspiriting in that thought, certain-
ly, for Erica worshipped her father. By degrees
the trouble and indignation died away and a
very sweet look stole over the grave little face.

A smutty sparrow came and peered down at
her from the ivy-covered wall^ and chirped and
twittered in quite a friendly way, perhaps recog-
nising the scatterer of its daily bread.

'After all,' thought Erica, ' with ourselves and
the animals, we might let the rest of the world
treat us as they please. I am glad they can't
turn the animals and birds against us ! That
would be worse than anything.'

Then, suddenly turning from the abstract to-

14 WE TWO.

the pi-actical, she took out of her pocket a
shabby little sealskin purse.

' Still sixpence of ray prize-money over,' she
remarked to herself. ' I'll go and buy some
scones for tea. Father likes them.'

Erica's father was a Scotchman, and, though
so-called scones were to be had at most shops,
there was only one place where she could buy
scones which she considered worthy the name,
and that was at the Scotch baker's in South-
ampton Row. She hurried along the wet pave-
ments, glad that the rain was over, for as soon
as her purchase was completed she made up her
mind to indulge for a few minutes in what had
lately become a very frequent treat, namely, a
pause before a certain tempting store of second-
hand books. She had never had money enough
to buy anything except the necessary school
books, and, being a great lover of poetry, she
always seized with avidity on anything that
was to be found outside the book-shop. Some-
time^ she would carry away a verse of Swin-
burne which would ring in her ears for days and
days ; sometimes she would read as much as

BRIAN FALLS IN LOVE. 1 5

two or three pages of Shelley. No one had
ever interrupted her, and a certain sense of
impropriety and daring was rather stimula-
ting than otherwise. It always brought to
her mind a saying in the proverbs of Solomon,
* Stolen waters are sweet, and bread eaten in
secret is pleasant.'

For three successive days she had found to
her great delight Longfellow's ' Hiawatha.'
The strange metre, the musical Indian names,
the delightfully described animals, all served to
make the poem wonderfully fascinating to her.
She thought a page or two of •' Hiawatha ' would
greatly sweeten her somewhat bitter world this
afternoon, and with her bag of scones in one
hand and the book in the other she read on
happily, quite unconscious that three pair of
eyes were watching her from within the shop.

The wrinkled old man who was the presiding
genius of the place had two customers^ a tall
grey-bearded clergyman with bright, kindly
eyes, and his son, the same Brian Osmond
whom Erica had charged with her umbrella in
Gower Street.

16 WE TWO.

*An outside customer for you,' remarked
Charles Osmond, the clergyman, glancing at
the shopkeeper. Then to his son, ' What a pic-
ture she makes !'

Brian looked up hastily from some medical
books which he had been turning over.

* Why, that's my little Gower Street friend,*
he exclaimed, the words being somehow sur-
prised out of him, though he would fain have
recalled them the next minute.

' I don't interrupt her/ said the shop-owner.
' Her father has done a great deal of business
with me, and the little lady has a fancy for
poetry, and don't get much of it in her life, I'll
be bound.'

- Why, who is she V asked Charles Osmond,
who was on very friendly terms with the old
book-collector.

' She's the daughter of Luke Raeburn,' was
the reply, * and whatever folks may say, I know
that Mr. Raeburn leads a hard enough life.'

Brian turned away from the speakers, a
sickening sense of dismay at his heart. His
ideal was the daughter of Luke Raeburn !

BRIAN FALLS IN LOVE. 17

And Luke Raeburn was an atheist leader!

For a few minntes he lost consciousness of
time and place, though always seeing in a sort
of dark mist Erica's lovely face bending over
her book. The shop-keeper's casual remark
had been a fearful bloAV to him ; yet, as he
came to himself again, his heart went out more
and more to the beautiful girl who had been
brought up in what seemed to him. so barren
a creed. His dream of love, which had been
bright enough only an hour before, was sud-
denly shadowed by an unthought-of pain, but
presently began to shine with a new and alto-
gether different lustre. He began to hear again
what was passing between his father and the
shop-keeper.

' There's a sight more good in him than
folks think. However wrong his views, he
believes them right, and is ready to suffer for
'em, too. Bless me, that's odd, to be sure I
There is Mr. Raeburn, on the other side of the
Eovv ! Fine looking man, isn't he !'

Brian, looking up eagerly, fancied he must
be mistaken, for the only passenger in sight

VOL. I. C

18 WE TWO.

was a very tall man of remarkably benign
aspect, middle-aged, yet venerable — or perhaps
better described by the word ' devotional-
looking,' pervaded too by a certain majesty of
calmness which seemed scarcely suited to his
character of public agitator. The clean-shaven
and somewhat rugged face was unmistakably
that of a Scotchman, the thick waves of tawny
hair overshadowing the wide brow, and the
clear golden-brown eyes showed Brian at once
that this could be no other than the father
of his ideal.

In the meantime, Raeburn, having caught
sight of his daughter, slowly crossed the road,
and coming noiselessly up to her, suddenly
took hold of the book she was reading, and
with laughter in his eyes, said, in a peremptory
voice,

' Five shillings to pay, if you please,
miss !'

Erica, who had been completely absorbed in
the poem, looked up in dismay ; then seeing
who had spoken she began to laugh.

* What a horrible fright you gave me, father !

BRIAX FALLS IN LOVE. 19

But do look at this, it's the loveliest thing iu the
world. I've just got to the " very strong man
Kwasind." I think he's a little like you !'

Raeburn, though no very great lover of
poetry, took the book and read a few lines.

' Long they lived in peace together,
Spake with naked hearts together,
Pondering much and much contriving
How the tribes of men might prosper.'

' Good ! That will do very well for you and
me, little one. I'm ready to be your Kwasind.
What's the price of the thing — four-and-six-
pence ! Too much for a luxury. It must wait
till our ship comes in.'

He put down the book and they moved on
together, but had not gone many paces before
they were stopped by a most miserable-looking
beggar child. Brian standing now outside the
shop, saw and heard all that passed.

Raeburn was evidently investigating the
case, Erica a little impatient of the interruption
was remonstrating.

' I thought you never gave to beggars, and I
am sure that harrowing story is made up.'

c2

20 WE TWO.

* Very likely,' replied her father, ' but the
hunger is real, and I know well enough what
hunger is. What have you here?' he added,
indicating the paper bag which Erica held.

' Scones,' she said, unwillingly.

' That will do/ he said, taking them from
her and giving them to the child. ' He is too
young to be anything but the victim of an-
other's laziness. There! sit down and eat
them v/hile you can.'

The child sat dov/n on a doorstep with the
bag of scones clasped in both hands, but he
continued to gaze after his benefactor till he
had passed out of sight, and there was a
strange look of surprise and gratification in his
eyes. That was a man who knew ! Many peo-
ple had, after hard begging, thrown him pence^
many had warned him off harshly, but this man
had looked straight into his eyes, and had at
once stopped and questioned him, had singled
out the one true statement from a mass of lies,
and had given him — not a stale loaf Avith the
top cut off, a suspicious sort of charity which
always angered the waif — but his own food.

BRIAN FALLS IN LOVE. 21

bought for bis own consumption. Most won-
derful of all, too, this man knew what it was
to be hungry, and had even the insight and
shrewdness to be aware that the waif's best
chance of eating the scones at all was to eat
them then and there. For the first time a feel-
ing of reverence and admiration was kindled in
the child's heart ; he would have done a great
deal for his unknown friend.

Raeburn and Erica had meanwhile walked on
in the direction of Guilford Square.

' I had bought them for you/ said Erica re-
proachfully.

*And I ruthlessly gave them away,' said
Raeburn^ smiling. ' That was hard lines ; I
thought they were only household stock. But
after all it comes to the same thing in the
end, or better. You have given them to me by
giving them to the child. Never mind, "Little
son Eric !" '

This was his pet name for her, and it meant
a great deal to them. She was his only child,
and it had at first been a great disappointment
to everyone that she was not a boy. But Rae-

22 WE TWO.

burn had long ago ceased to regret this, and
the nick-name referred more to Erica's capa-
bility of being both son and daughter to him,
able to help him in his work and at the same
to brighten his home. Erica was very proud of
her name, for she had been called after her
father's greatest friend Eric Haeberlein, a cele-
brated republican, who once during a long exile
had taken refuge in London. His views were
in some respects more extreme than Raeburn's,
but in private life he was the gentlest and most
fascinating of men, and had quite won the heart
of his little namesake.

As Mrs. Raeburn had surmised, Erica's father
had at once seen that something had gone
wrong that day. The all-observing eyes, which
had noticed the hungry look in the beggar
child's face, noticed at once that his own child
had been troubled.

' Something has vexed you,' he said. ^ What
is the matter. Erica V

' I had rather not tell you^ father, it isn't any-
thing much,' said Erica, casting down her eyes
as if all at once the paving-stones had become
absorbingly interesting.

BRIAN FALLS IN LOVE. 23

* I fancj^ I know already,' said Raeburn. * It
is about your friend at the High School, is it
not? I thought so. This afternoon 1 had a
letter from her father.'

' AVhat does he say ? May I see it V asked
Erica.

* I tore it lip,' said Kaeburn, ' I thought you
would ask to see it, and the thing was really
so abominably insolent that I didn't want you
to. How did you hear about it V

' Gertrude Avrote me a note,' said Erica.

*At her father's dictation, no doubt,' said
Raeburn, ' I should know his style directly, let
me see it.'

* I thought it was a pity to vex you, so I
burnt it,' said Erica.

Then, unable to help being amused at their
efforts to save each other, they both laughed,
though the subject was rather a sore one.

* It is the old story,' said Raeburn. ' Life
only, as Pope Innocent III. benevolently re-
marked, *' is to be left to the children of mis-
believers, and that only as an act of
mercy." You must make up your mind to bear

24 WE TWO.

the social stigma, little one. Do you see the
moral of this V

'No,' said Erica, with something between a
smile and a sigh.

*" The moral of it is that you must be content
with your own people,' said Raeburn. ' There
is this one good point about persecution — it
does draw us all nearer together, really
strengthens us in a hundred ways. So, little
son Eric, you must forswear school friends
and be content with your " very strong man
Kwasind," and we will

" Live in peace together,
Speak with naked hearts together."

By-the-by^ it is rather doubtful if Tom will be
able to come to the lecture to-night : do you
think you can take notes for me instead V

This was in reality the most delicate piece
of tact and consideration, for it was of course
Erica's delight and pride to help her father.

CHAPTER II.

FROM EFFECT TO CAUSE.

Only the acrid spirit of the times,
Corroded this true steel.

Longfellow.

Xot Thine the bigot's partial plea,
Not Thine the zealot's ban ;
Thou well canst spare a love of Thee
Which ends in hate of man.

AVhittiee.

Luke Raeburn was the son of a Scotch clergy-
man of the Episcopal church. His history,
though familiar to his own followers and to
them more powerfully convincing than many
arguments against modern Christianity, was
not generally known. The orthodox were apt

26 WE TWO.

to content themselves with shudderiog at the
mention of his name ; very few troubled them-
selves to think or inquire how this man had been
driven into atheism. Had they done so they
might, perhaps, have treated him more con-
siderately, at any rate they must have learnt
that the much-disliked prophet of atheism was
the most disinterested of meu, one who had the
courage of his opinions, a man of fearless
honesty.

Raebm-n had lost his mother very early ; his
father, a w^ell-to-do man, had held for many
years a small living in the west of Scotland.
He was rather a clever man, but one-sided and
bigoted; cold-hearted, too, and caring very
little for his children. Of Luke, however, he
was, in his peculiar fashion, very proud, for at
an early age the boy showed signs of genius.
The father was no great worker; though shrewd
and clever, he had no ambition, and was quite
content to live out his life in the retired little
parsonage where, with no parish to trouble him,
and a small and unexacting congregation on
Sundays, he could do pretty much as he pleased.

FROM EFFECT TO CAUSE. 27

But for bis son be was ambitions. Ever since
bis sixteentb year — wben^ at a public meeting,
tbe boy bad, to tbe astonisbment of everyone,
suddenly sprung to bis feet and contradicted a
false statement made by a great landowner as
to tbe condition of tbe cottages on bis estate — ^
tbe fatber bad foreseen future triumpbs for bis
son. For tbe speecb tbougb unpremeditated
was marvellously clever, and tbere was a power
in it not to be accounted for by a certain ring
of indignation ; it was tbe speecb of a future
orator.

Tben, too, Luke bad by tbis time sbown signs
of religious zeal, a zeal wbicb bis fatber, tbough
far from attempting to copy, could not but ad-
mire. His Sunday services over, be relapsed
into tbe comfortable, easy-going life of a country
gentleman for tbe rest of tbe week ; but bis son
was indefatigable, and, tbougb little more tban
a boy bimself, gatbered round bim tbe rougbest
lads of tbe village, and by bis eloquence, and a
certain peculiar personal fascination wbicb be
retained all bis life, absolutely forced tbem to
listen to bim. Tbe fatber augured great tbiugs

'28 WE TWO.

for him, and invariably prophesied that he
would 'live to see him a bishop yet.'

It was a settled thing that he should take
Holy Orders, and for some time Raeburn was
onl}^ too happy to carry out his father's plans.
In his very first term at Cambridge, however,
he began to feel doubts, and, becoming con-
vinced that he could never again accept the
doctrines in which he had been educated, he
told his father that he must give up all thought
of taking Orders.

Now, unfortunately, Mr. Raeburn was the
very last man to understand or sympathise with
any phase of life through which he had not
himself passed. He had never been troubled
with religious doubts ; scepticism seemed to him
monstrous and unnatural. He met the con-
fessioUj which his son had made in pain and
diffidence, with a most deplorable want of tact.
In answer to the perplexing questions which
were put to him, he merely replied testily
that Luke had been overworking himself,
that he had no business to trouble his head
with matters which were beyond him, and

FROM EFFECT TO CAUSE. 29

would fain have dismissed the whole affair at
once.

' But,' urged the son, ' how is it possible for
me to turn mj back upon these matters when I
am prepariug to teach them?'

' Nonsense,' replied the father, angrily. ' Have
not I taught all my life, preached twice a Sun-
day these thirty years without perplexing my-
self with your questionings ! Be off to your
shooting and your golf, and let me have no
more of this morbid fuss.'

No more was said ; but Luke Raeburn, with
his doubts and questions shut thus into himself,
drifted rapidly from scepticism to the most
positive form of unbelief. When he next came
home for the long vacation, his father was at
length awakened to the fact that the son, upon
whom all his ambition was set, was hopelessly
lost to the church ; and with this consciousness
a most bitter sense of disappointment rose in
his heart. His pride, the only side of father-
hood which he possessed, was deeply wounded,
and his dreams of honourable distinction were
laid low. His wrath was great.^^ Luke found the

30 WE TWO.

borne made almost unbearable to him. Ilis col-
lege career was of course at an end, for his
father would not hear of providing him with the
necessary funds now that he had actually con-
fessed his atheism. He w\as hardly allowed to
«peak to his sisters, every request for money to
start him in some profession met with a sharp
refusal, and matters were becoming so des-
perate that he would probably have left the
place of his own accord before long, had not
Mr. Kaeburn himself put an end to a state of
things which had grown insufferable.

With some lurking hope, perhaps, of convinc-
ing his son, he resolved upon trying a course of
argument. To do him justice he really tried to
prepare himself for it^ dragged down volumes
of dusty divines, and got up with much pains
Paley's ' watch ' argument. There was some
honesty, even perhaps a very little love_, in his
mistaken endeavours ; but he did not recognise
that, ^vhile he himself was unforgiving, unloving,
harsh, and self-indulgent, all his arguments for
Christianity were of necessity null and void.
He argued for the existence of a perfectly-

FROM EFFECT TO CAUSE. 31

loving, good God, all the while treating his son
with injustice and tyranny. Of course there
could be only one result from a debate between
the two. Luke Raeburn with his honesty, his
great abilities, his gift of reasoning, above
all his thorough earnestness, had the best
of it.

To be beaten in argument was naturally the
one thing which such a man as Mr. Raeburn
could not forgive. He might in time have
learnt to tolerate a difference of opinion, he
would beyond a doubt have forgiven almost
any of the failings that he could understand,
would have paid his son's college debts without a
murmur, would have overlooked anything con-
nected with what he considered the necessary
process of ' sowing his wild oats.' Blit that
the fellow should presume to think out the
greatest problems in the world, should set
up his judgment against Paley's, and worst
of all should actually and palpably beat
1dm in argument — this was an unpardonable
offence.

A stormy scene ensued. The father in ungov-

32 WE TWO.

ernable fury heaped upon the son every abusive
epithet he could think of. Luke Raeburn spoke
not a word ; he was strong and self-controlled ;
moreover, he knew that he had had the best of
the argument. He was human, however, and
his heart was wrung by his father's bitterness.
Standing there on that summer day, in the study
of the Scotch parsonage, the man's future was
sealed. He suffered there the loss of all things,
but at the very time there sprang up in him an
enthusiasm for the cause of free-thought, a pas-
sionate_, burning zeal for the opinions for which
lie suffered, which never left him, but served as
the great moving impulse of his whole subse-
quent life.

'I tell you, you are not fit to be in a
gentleman's house,' thundered the father. ' A
rank atheist, a lying infidel! It is against
nature that you should call a parsonage your
home.'

' It is not particularly home-like,' said
the son, bitterly. 'I can leave it when you
please.J.,

' Can !' exclaimed his father, in a fury, ' you

FROM EFFECT TO CAUSE. 3^

will leave it, sir^ and this very da}^ too ! I dis-
own yon from this time. I'll have no atheist for
my son ! Change your views or leave the house
at once.'

Perhaps he expected his son to make some
compromise ; if so he showed what a very slight
knowledge he had of his character. Luke Kae-
burn had certainly not been prepared for such
extreme harshness^ but with the pain and
grief and indignation there rose in his heart a
mighty resoluteness. With a face as hard
and rugged as the granite rocks without,
he wished his father good-bye, and obeyed his
orders.

Then had followed such a struggle with the
W'orld as few men would have gone through
with. Cut off from all friends and relations by
his avowal of atheism, and baffled again and
again in seeking to earn his living, he had
more than once been on the very brink of star-
vation. By sheer force of will he had won his
way, had risen above adverse circumstances,
had fought down obstacles, and conquered op-
posing powers. Before long he had made fresh

VOL. T. D

34 WE TWO.

friends and gained many followers, for there
was an extraordinary magnetism about the
man which almost compelled those who -were
brought into contact with him to reverence him.

It was a curious history. First there had
been that time of grievous doubt ; then he had
been thrown upon the world friendless and
penniless, with the beliefs and hopes hitherto
most sacred to him dead, and in their place
an aching blank. He had suffered much.
Treated on all sides with harshness and injus-
tice, it was indeed wonderful that he had not
developed into a mere hater, a passionate down-
puller. But there was in his character a
nobility which would not allow him to rest at
this low level. The bitter hostility and injus-
tice which he encountered did indeed warp his
mind^ and every year of controveisy made it
more impossible for him to take an unprejudiced
view of Christ's teaching ; but nevertheless he
could not remain a mere destroyer.

In that time of blankness, when he had lost
all faith in God, when he had been robbed of
friendship and family love, he had seized des-

FROM EFFECT TO CAUSE. 35

perately on the one thing left him, — the love of
humanity. To him atheism meant not only the
assertion— ' The word God is a word with-
out meaning, it conveys nothing to ray under-
standing.' He added to this barren confes-
sion of an intellectual state, a singularly high
code of duty. Such a code as could only have
emanated from one about whom there lingered
what Carlyle has termed, a great 'Aftershine
of Christianity.' He held that the only happi-
ness worth having was that Avhich came to a
man while engaged in promoting the general
good. That the whole duty of man was to
devote himself to the service of others. And
he lived his creed.

Like other people he had his faults, but he
was always ready to spend and be spent for
what he considered the good of others, while
every act of injustice called forth his unsparing
rebuke, and every oppressed person or cause was
sure to meet with his support at whatever cost
to himself. His zeal for what he regarded as
the ' gospel ' of atheism grew and strengthened
year by year. He was the untiring advocate of

D 2

3d we two.

what he considered the truth. Neither illness,
nor small results, nor loss, could quench his
ardour, while opposition invariably stimulated
him to fresh efforts. After long years of toil,
he had at length attained an influential posi-
tion in the country, and though crippled by
debts incurred in the struggle for freedom
of speech, and living in absolute penury,
he was one of the most powerful men of
the day.

The old book-seller had very truly ob-
served that there was more good in him than
people thought, he was in fact a noble char-
acter twisted the wrong way by clumsy and
mistaken handling.

Brian Osmond was by no means bigoted ;
he had, moreover, known those who were in-
timate with Raeburn, and consequently had
heard enough of the truth about him to dis-
believe the gross libels which were constantly
being circulated by the unscrupulous among
his opponents. Still, as on that November
afternoon he watched Raeburn and his daugh-
ter down Southampton Row, he was conscious

FROM EFFECT TO CAUSE. 37

that for the first time he fully regarded the
atheist as a fellow-man. The fact was, that Hae-
burn had for long years been the champion of a
hated cause ; he had braved the full flood of
opposition ; and like an isolated rock had been
the mark for so much of the rage and fury of
the elements that people who knew him only
by name had really learned to regard him more
as a target than as a man. It was who could
hit him hardest, who could most effectually
bafiSe and ruin him ; while the quieter spirits
contented themselves with rarely mentioning
his obnoxious name, and endeavouring as far as
possible to ignore his existence. Brian felt that
till now he had followed with the multitude to
do evil. He had as far as possible ignored his
existence ; had even been rather annoyed when
his father had once publicly urged that Rae-
burn should be treated with as much justice
and courtesy and consideration as if he had
been a Christian. He had been vexed that his
father should suffer on behalf of such a man,
had been half inclined to put down the scorn
and contempt and anger of the narrow-mind-

38 WE TWO.

ed to the atheist's account. The feeling had
perhaps been natural, but all was changed now ;
he only revered his father all the more for hav-
ing suffered in an unpopular cause. With some
eagerness, he went back into the shop to see if
he could gather any more particulars from the
old book-seller. Charles Osmond had, however,
finished his purchases and his conversation, and
was ready to go.

* The second house in Guilford Terrace, you
say/ he observed, turning at the door. ' Thank
you, I shall be sure to find it. Good-day.'
Then, turning to his son, he added, ^I had no
idea we were such near neighbours ! Did you
hear what he told me ? Mr. Raeburn lives in
Guilford Terrace.'

' What, that miserable blind-alley, do you
mean, at the other side of the square V

' Yes, and I'm just going round there now,
for our friend, the "Bookworm," tells me he
has heard it rumoured that some unscrupulous
person, who is going to answer Mr. Raeburn
this evening, has hired a band of roughs to
make a disturbance at the meeting. Fancy

FRO:Sl EFFECT TO CAUSE. 39

how indignant Donovan would be ! I only
wish he were here to take word to Mr. Rae-
burn.'

' Will he not most likely have heard from
some other source V said Brian.

' Possibly ; but I shall go round and see. Such
abominations ought to be put down, and if by
our own side all the better.'

Brian was only too glad that his father
should go, and indeed, he would probably have
wished to take the message himself had not his
mind been set upon getting the best edition of
Longfellow to be found in all London for his
ideal. So, at the turning into Guilford Square,
the father and son parted.

The book-seller's information had roused in
Charles Osmond a keen sense of indignation ;
he walked on rapidly as soon as he had left his
sou, and in a very few minutes had reached the
gloomy entrance to Guilford Terrace. It was
currently reported that Raeburn made fabulous
sums by his work, and lived in great luxury ;
but the real fact was that, whatever his income,
few men led so self-denying a life, or voluntarily

40 WE TWO.

endured such privations. Charles Osmond could
not help wishing that he could bring some of
the intolerant with him down that gloomy little
alley^ to the door of that comfortless lodging-
house. He rang, and was admitted into the
narrow passage, then shown into the private
study of the great man. The floor was un-
carpeted, the window uncurtained, the room
was almost dark; but a red glow of firelight
served to show a large writing-table strewn
with papers, and walls literally lined with
books ; also on the hearthrug a little figure
curled up in the most unconventionally com-
fortable attitude, dividing her attention be-
tween making toast and fondling a loudly-
purring cat.

41

CHAPTER TIL

LIFE FROM ANOTHER POINT OF VIEW.

Toleration an attack on Christianity? AVhat, then, are
we to come to this pass, to suppose that nothing can sup-
port Christianity but the principles of persecution ? . . .
I am persuaded that toleration, so far from being an attack
on Christianity, becomes the best and surest support that
can possibly be given to it. . . Toleration is good for
all, or it is good for none. . . God forbid ! I may be
mistaken, but I take toleration to be a part of religion.

BUEKE.

Erica was, apparently, well used to receiving
strangers. She put down the toasting-fork, but
kept the cat in her arms, as she rose to greet
Charles Osmond, and her frank and rather
child-like manner fascinated him almost as
much as it had fascinated Brian.

42 WE TWO.

* My father will be home in a few minutes.'
she said, * I almost wonder you didn't meet him
in the square ; he has only just gone to send off
a telegram. Can you wait? Or will you leave
a message V

' I will wait, if I may,' said Charles Osmond.
' Oh, don't trouble about a light, I like this dim-
ness very well, and, please, don't let me interrupt
you.'

Erica relinquished a vain search for candle-
lighters, and took up her former position on the
hearthrug with her toasting-fork.

' I like the gloaming, too,' she said. ' It's al-
most the only nice thing w^hich is economical!
Everything else that one likes specially costs
too much ! I wonder whether people with
money do enjoy all the great treats.'

* Very soon grow blase, I expect,' said Charles
Osmond. ' The essence of a treat is rarity,
you see.'

' I suppose it is. But I think I could enjoy
ever so many things for years and years with-
out growing hlaseej said Erica. ' Sometimes I
like jnst to fancy what life might be if there

LIFE FROM ANOTHER POINT OF VIEW. 43

were no tiresome Christians, and bigots^ and
law-suits.'

Charles Osmond laughed to himself in the
dim light ! the remark was made with such per-
fect sincerity, and it evidently had not dawned
on the speaker that she could be addressing
any but one of her father's followers. Yet the
words saddened him too. He just caught a
glimpse through them of life viewed from a
directly opposite point.

' Your father has a law-suit going on now,
has he not?' he observed, after a little pause.

' Oh, yes, there is almost always one either
looming in the distance or actually going on.
I don't think I can ever remember the time
when we were quite free. It must feel very
funny to have no worries of that kind. I think,
if there wasn't always this great load of debt
tied round our necks like a millstone, I should
feel almost light enough to fly ! And then it is
hard to read in some of those horrid religious
papers that father lives an easy-going life. Did
you see a dreadful paragraph last week in the
Church Chronicle T

44 WE TWO.

' Yes, I did,' said Charles Osmond, sadly.

'It always has been the same,' said Erica.
'Father has a delightful story about an old
gentleman who at one of his lectures accused
him of being rich and self-indulgent — it was a
great many years ago when I was a baby, and
father was nearly killing himself with over-
work— and he just got up and gave the people
the whole history of his day, and it turned out
that he had had nothing to eat. Mustn't the
old gentleman have felt delightfully done?
I always wonder how he looked w^hen he
heard about it, and whether after that he be-
lieved that atheists are not necessarily every-
thing that's bad.'

' I hope such days as those are over for Mr.
Raeburn,' said Charles Osmond, touched both
by the anecdote and by the loving admiration
of the speaker.

' I don't know,' said Erica, sadly. ' It has
been getting steadily worse for the last few
years ; we have had to give up thing after thing.
Before long I shouldn't wonder if these rooms
in what father calls " Persecution Alley " grew

LIFE FROM ANOTHER POINT OF VIEW. 45

too expensive for us. But, after all, it is this
sort of thing which makes our own people love
him so much, don't you think V

' I have no doubt it is,' said Charles Osmond,
thoughtfully.

And then for a minute or two there was si-
lence. Erica, having finished her toasting,
stirred the fire into a blaze, and Charles Os-
mond sat watching the fair, childish face which
looked lovelier than ever in the soft glow of
the firelight. What would her future be_, he
wondered. She seemed too delicate and sensi-
tive for the stormy atmosphere in which she
lived. Would the hard life embitter her, or
would she sink under it ? But there was a
certain curve of resoluteness about her well-
formed chin which was sufficient answer to the
second question, while he could not but think
that the best safe-guard against the danger of
bitterness lay in her very evident love and loy-
alty to her father.

Erica in the meantime sat stroking her cat
Friskarina, and wondering a little who her visitor
could be. She liked him very much and could

46 WE TWO.

not help responding to the bright kindly eyes
which seemed to plead for confidence ; though
he was such an entire stranger, she found
herself quite naturally opening out her heart to
him.

' I am to take notes at my father's meeting
to-night,' she said, breaking the silence, ' and
perhaps write the account of it afterwards too ;
and there's such a delightfully funny man com-
ing to speak on the other side,'

' Mr. Randolph^ is it not V

' Yes, a sort of male Mrs. Malaprop. Oh,
such fun !' and, at the remembrance of some
past encounter, Erica's eyes positively danced
with laughter. But the next minute she was
very grave.

* I came to speak to Mr. Raeburn about this
evening/ said Charles Osmond. ' Do you know
if he has heard of a rumour that this Mr. Ran-
dolph has hired a baud of roughs to interrupt
the meeting V

Erica made an indignant exclamation.

' Perhaps that was what the telegram was
about,' she continued, after a moment's thought.

LIFE FROM ANOTHER POINT OF VIEW. 47

' We found it here when we came hi. Father
said nothing, but went out very quickly to an-
swer it. Oh ! now we shall have a dreadful
time of it, I suppose, and perhaps he'll get hurt
again. I did hope they had given up that sort
of thing.'

She looked so troubled that Charles Osmond
regretted he had said anything, and has-
tened to assure her that what he had heard was
the merest rumour, and very possibly not
true.

* I am afraid,' she said, ' it is too bad not to be
true.'

It struck Charles Osmond that that was
about the saddest little sentence he had ever
heard.

Partly wishing to change the subject, partly
from real interest, he made some remark about
a lovely little picture, the only one in the room ;
its frame was lighted up by the flickering blaze,
and even in the imperfect light he could see that
the subject was treated in no ordinary way. It
w^^^s a little bit of the Thames far away from
London, with a bank of many-tinted trees on

48 WE TWO.

one side, aud out beyond a range of low bills,
purple in tbe evening ligbt. In tbe skj was a
rosy sunset glow, melting above into saffron
colour, and tbis was reflected in tbe water,
gilding and mellowing tbe foreground of sedge
and water-lilies. But wbat made tbe picture
specially cbarming was tbat tbe artist bad
really caugbt tbe peculiar solemn stilbiess of
evening ; merely to look at tbat quiet, peaceful
river brougbt a feeling of busb and calmness.
It seemed a strange picture to find as tbe sole
ornament in tbe study of a man wbo bad all
bis life been figbting tbe world.

Erica brigbtened up again, and seemed to
forget ber anxiety wben be questioned ber as
to tbe artist.

' Tbere is sucb a nice story about tbat picture,'
sbe said, ' I always like to look at it. It was
about two years ago^ one very cold winter's
day, and a woman came witb some oil-paintings
wbicb sbe was trying to sell for ber busband,
wbo was ill : be was ratber a good artist, but
bad been in bad bealtb for a long time, till at
last sbe bad really come to bawking about bis

LIFE FROM ANOTHER POINT OF VIEW. 49

pictures in this way, because they were in such
dreadful distress. Father was very much wor-
ried just then, there was a horrid libel case
going on, and that morning he was very busy,
and he sent the woman away rather sharply,
said he had no time to listen to her. Then
presently he was vexed with himself because
she really had looked in great trouble, and he
thought he had been harsh, and, though he
was dreadfully pressed for time^ he would go
out into the square to see if he couldn't find her
again. I went with him, and we had walked
all round and had almost given her up, when
we caught sight of her coming out of a house
on the opposite side. And then it was so
nice^ father spoke so kindly to her, and found
out more about her history, and said that he
was too poor to buy her pictures ; but she look-
ed dreadfully tired and cold, so he asked her to
come in and rest, and she came and sat by the
fire, and stayed to dinner with us, and we look-
ed at her pictures, because she seemed so proud
of them and liked us to. One of them was
that little river-scene, which father took a great
VOL. I. E

50 WE TWO.

faucy to, and praised a great deal. She left us
her address, and later on, when the libel case
was ended, and father had got damages, and so
had a little spare money, he sent some to this
poor artist, and they were so grateful, though,
do you know, I think the dinner pleased them
more than the money, and they would insist on
sending this picture to father. I'll light the
gas, and then you^ll see it better.'

She twisted a piece of paper into a spill, and
put an end to the gloaming. Chailes Osmond
stood up to get a nearer view of the painting,
and Erica, too, drew nearer, and looked at it for
a minute in silence.

' Father took me up the Thames once,' she
said, by-and-by. 'It was so lovely. Some
day, when all these persecutions are over, we
are going to have a beautiful tour, and see all
sorts of places. But I don't know when they

will be over ! As soon as one bigot ' she

broke off suddenly, with a stifled exclamation
of dismay.

Charles Osmond, in the dim light, with his
long grey beard, had not betrayed his clerical

LIFE FROM ANOTHER POINT OF VIEW. 51

-dress ; but^ glancing round at him now, she saw
at once that the stranger to whom she had
spoken so unreservedly was by no means one of
her father's followers.

' Well !' he said, smiling, half understanding
her confusion.

' You are a clergyman !' she almost gasped.

* Yes; why not r

' 1 beg your pardon, I never thought — you
seemed so much too '

* Too what?' urged Charles Osmond. Then,
as she still hesitated, ' Now, you must really let
me hear the end of that sentence, or I shall ima-
gine everything dreadful !'

* Too nice/ murmured Erica, wishing that
she could sink through the floor.

But the confession so tickled Charles Osmond
that he laughed aloud, and his laughter was so
infectious that Erica, in spite of her confusion,
could not help joining in it. She had a very
keen sense of the ludicrous, and the position
was, undoubtedly, a laughable one ; still there
were certain appalling recollections of the past
conversation which soon made her serious

E 2

LIBRARY

UMiVERSJTY OF ILLINOIS

52 ^YE TWO.

again. She had talked of persecutions to one
■who was, at any rate, on the side of the persecu-
tors ; had alluded to bigots, and, worst of all,
had spoken in no measured terms of ' tiresome
Christians.'

She turned, rather shyly, and yet with a
touch of dignity, to her visitor, and said,

'It was very careless of me not to notice
more; but it was dark, and I am not used to
seeing any but our own people here. I am
afraid I said things which must have hurt you :
I wished you had stopped me.'

The beautiful colour had spread and deep-
ened in her cheeks, and there was something
indescribably sweet and considerate in her
tone of apology. Charles Osmond was touched
by it.

' It is I who should apologise,' he said. ' I
am not at all sure that I was justified in
sitting there quietly, knowing that you were
under a delusion ; but it is always very delight-
ful to me in this artificial world to meet anyone
who talks quite naturally, and the interest of
hearing your view of the question kept me

LIFE FROM ANOTHER POINT OF VIEW. 53

silent. You must forgive me, and as you know
I'm too nice to be a clergyman '

* Oh, I beg your pardon ! How rude I have
been,' cried Erica, blushing anew, ' but you did
make me say it.'

' Of course^ and I take it as a high compli-
ment from you,' said Charles Osmond, laughing
again at the recollection. ^ Come, may we not
seal our friendship ? We have been sufficiently
frank with each other to be something more
than acquaintances for the future.'

Erica held out her hand and found it
taken in a strong, firm clasp, which somehow
conveyed much more than an ordinary hand-
shake.

'And, after all, you are too nice for a clergy-
roan I' she thought to herself. Then, as a fresh
idea crossed her mind, she suddenly exclaimed,
' But you came to tell us about Mr. Randolph's
roughs, did you not % How came you to care
that we should know beforehand f

* Why, naturally, I hoped that a disturbance
might be stopped.'

' Is it natural?' questioned Erica. 'I should

54 WE TWO.

have thought it more natural for you to think
with your own party.'

' But peace and justice and freedom of speech
must all stand before party questions.'

* Yet you think that we are wrong and that
Christianit}^ is right V

' Yes, but to my mind perfect justice is part
of Christianity.'

' Oh/ said Erica, in a tone which meant un-
utterable things.

' You think that Christians do not show per-
fect justice to you?' said Charles Osmond, read-
ing her thoughts.

' I can't say I think they do,' she replied.
Then, suddenly firing up at the recollection of
her afternoon's experiences, she said, ' They are
not just to us, though they preach justice ; they
are not loving, though they talk about love !
If they want us to think their religion true, I
wonder they don't practise it a little more and
preach it less. What is the use of talking of
" brotherly kindness and charity " when they
hardly treat us like human beings, when the}"
make up wicked lies about us, and will hardly

LIFE FROM ANOTHER POINT OF VIEW. 55

let lis sit in the same room with them V

' Come^ now, we really are sitting in the same
room/ said Charles Osmond, smiling.

' Oh, dear, what am I to do !' exclaimed Erica.
' I can't remember that you are one of them !
you are so very unlike most.'

' I think,' said Charles Osmond, ' you have
come across some very bad specimens.'

Erica in her heart considered her visitor as
the exception which proved the rule ; but, not
wishing to l^e caught tripping again, she re-
solved to say no more upon the subject.

* Let us talk of something else,' she said.

' Something nicer V said Charles Osmond,
with a little mischievous twinkle in his eyes.

' Safer,' said Erica, laughing. ' But, stop, I
hear my father.'

She went out into the passage to meet him.
Charles Osmond heard her explaining his visit
and the news he had brought, heard Raeburn's
brief responses ; then, in a few moments_, the
two entered the room^ a; picturesque-lookiog
couple, the clergyman thought, the tall, stately
man with his broad forehead and overshadow-

56 WE TWO.

ing masses of auburn hair, the little, eager-faced
impetuous girl^ so -winsome in her unconven-
tional frankness.

The conversation became a trifle more cere-
monious, though with Erica perched on the arm
of her father's chair, ready to squeeze his hand
at every word which pleased her, it could hardly
become stiff. Raeburn had just heard the re-
port of Mr. Randolph's scheme and had already
taken precautionary measures ; but he was sur-
prised and gratified that Charles Osmond shoald
have troubled to bring him word about it. The
two men talked on with the most perfect friend-
liness, and by-and-by, to Erica's great delight,
Charles Osmond expressed a wish to be present
at the meeting that night, and made inquiries
as to the time and place.

' Oh, couldn't you stay to tea and go with us V
she exclaimed, forgetting for the third time that
he was a clergyman, and offering the ready
hospitality she would have offered to anyone
else.

' I should be delighted,' he said, smiling, ' if
you can really put up with one of the cloth.'

LIFE FROM ANOTHER POINT OF VIEW. 57

Raeburn, amused at his daughter's spontan-
eous hospitality and pleased with the friendly
acceptance it had met with, was quite ready to
second the invitation. Erica was delighted ;
she carried off the cat and the toast into the
next room, eager to tell her mother all about
the visitor.

' The most delightful man, mother, not a bit
like a clergyman ! I didn't jSnd out for ever so
long what he was, and said all sorts of dreadful
things, but he didn't mind and was not the
least offended.'

' When will J'ou learn to be cautious, I won-
der/ said Mrs. Raeburn, smiling. ' You are a
shocking little chatterbox.'

And as Erica flitted busily about, arranging
the tea-table, her mother watched her half
amusedly, half anxiously. She had always
been remarkably frank and outspoken, and
there was something so transparently sincere
about her that she seldom gave offence; but
the mother could not help wondering how it
would be as she grew older and mixed with a
greater variety of people. In fact, in every

58 WE TWO.

way she was anxious about the child's future,
for Erica's was a somewhat perplexing charac-
ter, and seemed very ill-fitted for her position.

Eric Haeberlein had once compared her to a
violin, and there was a good deal of truth in
his idea. She was very sensitive, responding
at once to the merest touch, and easily moved
to admiration and devoted love, or to strong
indignation. Naturally high-spirited, she was
subject, too, to fits of depression, and was
always either in the heights or the depths. Yet
Avith all these characteristics was blended her
father's indomitable courage and tenacity;
though feeling the thorns of life far more keen-
ly than most people, she was one of those who
will never yield ; though pricked and wounded
by outward events, she would never be conquer-
ed by circumstance. At present her capabilities
for adoration, which were very great, were
lavished in two directions : in the abstract she
worshipped intellect, in the concrete she wor-
shipped her father.

From the grief and indignation of the after-
noon, she had passed with extraordinary rapidity

LIFE FKOM ANOTHER POINT OF VIEW. 59

to a state of merriment which would have been
incomprehensible to one who did not understand
her peculiarly complex character. Mrs. Rae-
burn listened with a good deal of amusement to
her racy description of Charles Osmond.

' Strange that this should have happened so
soon after our talk this afternoon,' she said,
musingly. 'Perhaps it is as well that you
should have a glimpse of the other side, against
which you were inveighing, or you might be
growing narrow.'

' He is much too good to belong to them V
said Erica, enthusiastically.

As she spoke, Raeburn entered, bringing the
visitor with him, and they all sat down to their
meal, Erica pouring out tea and attending to
everyone's wants, fondling her cat, and listening
to the conversation, with all the time a curious
perception that to sit down to table with one of
her father's opponents was a very novel experi-
ence. She could not help speculating as to the
thoughts and impressions of her companions.
Her mother was, she thought, pleased and-
interested, for about her worn face there was

60 WE TWO.

the look of contentment which invariably came
when for a time the bitterness of the struggle
of life was broken by any sign of friendliness.
Her father was — as he generally was in his own
house — quiet, gentle in manner, ready to be both
an attentive and an interested listener. This
gift he had almost as markedly as the gift of
speech ; he at once perceived that his guest was
no ordinary man, and by a sort of instinct he
had discovered on what subjects he was best
calculated to speak, and wherein they could
gain most from him. Charles Osmond's thoughts
she could only speculate about ; but that he was
ready to take them all as friends, and did not
regard them as a different order of beings, was
plain.

The conversation had drifted into regions of
abstruse science, when Erica, who had been
listening attentively, was altogether diverted
by the entrance of the servant, who brought her
a brown-paper parcel. Eagerly opening it, she
was almost bewildered by the delightful sur-
prise of finding a complete edition of Long-
fellow's poems, bound in dark-blue morocco.

LIFE FROM ANOTHER POINT OF VIEW. 61

Inside was written, ' From another admirer of
'' Hiawatha." '

She started np with a rapturous exclamation,
and the two men paused in their talk, each un-
able to help watching the beautiful little face all
aglow with happiness. Erica almost danced
round the room with her new treasure.

' What lieavenly person can have sent me
this !' she cried. * Look, father ! Did you ever
see such a beauty !'

Science went to the winds^ and Raeburn gave
all his sympathy to Erica and Lon*gfellow.

* The very thing you were wishing for ! Who
could have sent it?'

* I can't think ! It can't be Tom, because I
know he's spent all his money, and Auntie
would never call herself an admirer of " Hiawa-
tha,'' nor Herr Haeberlein, nor Monsieur Noirol,
nor anyone I can think of.'

' Dealings with the fairies,' said Raeburn,
smiling. ' Your beggar-child with the scones sud-
denly transformed into a beneficent rewarder.'

* Not from you, father?'
Raeburn laughed.

62 WE TWO.

' A pretty substantial fairy for you ! No, uo,
I had no hand in it. I can't give yon presents
while I am in debt, my bairn.'

^Oh, isn't it jolly to get what one wants!*
said Erica, with a fervour which made the three
grown-up people laugh.

* Very jolly,' said Raeburn, giving her a little
mute caress. 'But now, Eric, please to go back
and eat something, or I shall have my reporter
fainting in the middle of a speech.'

She obeyed, carrying away the book with her
and enlivening them with extracts from it ;
once delightedly discovering a most appropriate
passage.

^ Why, of course !' she exclaimed, ' you and
Mr. Osmond, father, are smoking the Peace-
Pipe!' And with much force and animation
she read them bits from the first canto.

Raeburn left the room before long to get
ready for his meeting, but Erica still lingered
over her new treasure, putting it down at
length with great reluctance to prepare her
note-book and sharpen her pencil.

'Isn't that a dehghtful bit where Hiawatha

LIFE FROM ANOTHER POINT OF VIEW. 63

was angry/ she said, ' it has been running in my

head all day —

' ' For his heart was hot within him,
Like a living coal his heart was."

That's what I shall feel like to-night when

Mr. Randolph attacks father.'

She ran upstairs to dress, and, as the door
closed upon her, Mrs. Raeburn turned to Charles
Osmond with a sort of apology.

' She finds it very hard not to speak out her
thoughts ; it will often ^-et her into trouble, I
am afraid.'

* It is too fresh and delightful to be checked
though,' said Charles Osmond^ 'I assure you
she has taught me many a lesson to-night.'

The mother talked on almost unreservedly
about the subject that was evidently nearest
her heart — the diflSculties of Erica's education,
the harshness they so often met with, the harm
it so evidently did the child — till the subject
of the conversation came down again, much
too excited and happy to care just then for
any unkind treatment. Had she not got a
Longfellow of her Yery own, and did not

64 WE TWO.

that unexpected pleasure make up for a thou-
sand privations and discomforts !

Yet, with all her childishness and impetu-
osity, Erica was womanly too, as Charles
Osmond saw by the way she waited on her
mother, thinking of everything which the
invalid could possibly want while they were
gone, brightening the whole place with her
sunshiny presence. Whatever else was lack-
ing, there was no lack of love in this house.
The tender considerateness which softened
Erica's impetuosity in her mother's presence,
the loving comprehension between parent and
child, was very beautiful to see.

6a

CHAPTER IV.

^ SUPPOSING IT IS TRUE !'

A man "who strives earnestly and perseveringly to con-
vince others, at least convinces us that he is cominced

himself.

Guesses at Truth.

The rainy afternoon had given place to a
fine and starlight night. Erica, apparently ia
high spirits, walked between her father and
Charles Osmond.

'Mother won't be anxious about us,' she
said. ' She has not heard a word about Mr.
Randolph's plans. I was so afraid some one
would speak about it at tea-time, and then she
would have been in a fright all the evening,
and would not have liked my going.'

VOL. I. F

66 WE TWO.

'Mr. Randolph is both energetic and unscru-
pulous,' said Raeburn. ' But I doubt if even
he would set his roughs upon you, little one,
unless he has become as bloodthirsty as a
certain old Scotch psalm we used to sing.'

'What was that?' questioned Erica.

*I forget the beginning, but the last verse
always had a sort of horrible fascination for
vs —

" How happy should that trooper be
Who, riding on a naggie,
Should take thy little children up,
And dash them 'gin the craggie !'"

Charles Osmond and Erica laughed heart-
ily.

' They will only dash you against metaphor-
ical rocks in the nineteenth century,' continued
Raeburn. ' I remember wondering why the
old clerk in my father's church always sang
that verse so lustily ; but you see we have ex-
actly the same spirit now, only in a more civil-
ised form, barbarity changed to polite cruelty,
as for instance the way you were treated this
afternoon.'

' SUPPOSING IT IS TRUE !' 67

'Ob, don't talk about tbat,' said Erica,
quickly, 'I am going to enjoy my Longfellow
and forget tbe rest.'

In trutb, Charles Osmond was struck with
this both in the father and daughter ; each had
a wa}^ of putting back their bitter thoughts,
of dwelling whenever it was possible on the
brighter side of life. He knew that Raeburn
was involved in most harassing litigation, was
burdened with debt, was confronted every-
^vhere with bitter and often violent opposi-
tion ; yet he seemed to live above it all^ for
there was a w^onderful repose about him, an
extraordinary serenity in his aspect, which
would have seemed better fitted to a hermit
than to one who had spent his life in fighting
against desperate odds. One thing was quite
clear, the man was absolutely convinced that he
was suffering for the truth, and was ready to en-
dure anything in what he considered the service
of his fellow-men. He did not seem particularly
anxious as to the evening's proceedings. On the
whole, they were rather a merry party as they
walked along Gower Street to the station.

f2

68 WE TWO.

But wheo they got out again at their destin-
ation, and walked through the busy streets to
the hall where the lecture was to be given, a
sort of seriousness fell upon all three. They
were each going to work in their different
ways for what they considered the good of
humanity, and instinctively a silence grew and
deepened.

Erica was the first to break it as they came

in sight of the hall.

* What a crowd there is !' she exclaimed. ' Are
these Mr. Randolph's roughs ?'

' We can put up with them outside,' said
Raeburn ; but Charles Osmond noticed that as
he spoke he drew the child nearer to him, with a
momentary look of trouble in his face, as though
he shrank from taking her through the rabble.
Erica, on the other hand, looked interested and
perfectly fearless. With great difficulty they
forced their way on, hooted and yelled at by
the mob, who, however, made no attempt at
violence. At length, reaching the shelter of the
entrance lobby, Raebiu-n left them for a moment,
pausing to give directions to the doorkeepers.

' SUPPOSING IT IS TRUE !' 69

Just then, to his great surprise, Charles Osmond
caught sight of his son standing only a few
paces from them. His exclamation of astonish-
ment made Erica look up. Brian came forward
eagerly to meet them.

' You here !' exclaimed his father, with a la-
tent suspicion confirmed into a certainty. * This
is my son. Miss Raeburn.'

Brian had not dreamed of meeting her, he had
waited about, curious to see how Raeburn would
get on with the mob ; it was with a strange pang
of rapture and dismay that he had seen his fair
little ideah That she should be in the midst of
that hooting mob made his heart throb with in-
dignation, yet there was something so sweet
in her grave stedfast face that he was, never-
theless, glad to have witnessed the scene. Her
colour was rather heightened, her eyes bright
but very quiet, yet as Charles Osmond spoke,
and she looked at Brian, her face all at once
lighted up, and with an irresistible smile she
exclaimed, in the most childlike of voices,

' Why, it's my umbrella man !' The informality
of the exclamation seemed to make them at once

70 WE TWO.

something more than ordinary acquaintances;
They told Charles Osmond of their encounter in
the afternoon, and in a very few minutes Brian,
hardly knowing whether he were not in some
strange dream, found himself sitting with his
father and Erica in a crowded lecture hall^ rea-
lising with an intensity of joy and an intensity
of pain how near he was to the queen of his
heart and yet how far from her.

The meeting was quite orderly. Though
Kaeburn was addressing many who disagreed
with him, he had evidently got the whole and
imdivided attention of his audience ; and in-
deed his gifts both as rhetorician and orator
were so great that they must have been either
wilfully deaf or obtuse who, when under the
spell of his extraordinary earnestness and elo-
quence, could resist listening. Not a word was
lost on Brian ; every sentence which emphasis-
ed the great difference of belief between himself
and his love seemed to engrave itself on his
heart; no minutest detail of that evening escap-
ed him.

He saw the tall, commanding figure of the ora-

' SUPPOSING IT IS TRUE !' 71

tor, the vast sea of upturned faces below, the
eager attention imprinted on all^ sometimes a
wave of sympathy and approval sweeping over
them, resulting in a storm of applause, at times
a more divided disapproval, or a shout of ' No,
no,' which invariably roused the speaker to a
more vigorous, clear, and emphatic repetition of
the questioned statement. And, through all, he
was ever conscious of the young girl at his side,
who with her head bent over her note-book was
absorbed in her work. While the most vital ques-
tions of life were being discussed, he was yet
always aware of that hand travelling rapidly to
and fro, of the pages hurriedly turned, of the
quick yet weary looking change of posture.

Though not without a strong vein of sarcasm,
Kaeburn's speech was, on the whole, temperate ;
it certainly should have been met with considera-
tion. But, unfortunately, Mr. Randolph was in-
capable of seeing any good in his opponent ; his
combative instincts were far stronger than his
Christianity, and Brian, who had winced many
times, while listening to the champion of atheism,
was even more keenly wounded by the cham-

72 WE TWO.

pion of his own cause. Abusive epithets abound-
ed in his retort ; at last he left the subject under
discussion altogether, and launched into person-
alities of the most objectionable kind. Raeburn
sat with folded arms, listening with a sort of
cold dignity. He looked very different now from
the genial-mannered, quiet man whom Charles
Osmond had seen in his own home but an hour
or two ago. There was a peculiar look in his
tawny eyes hardly to be described in words, a
look which was hard, and cold, and steady. It
told of an originally sensitive nature, inured to
ill-treatment ; of a strong will w^hich had long
ago steeled itself to endure ; of a character which,
though absolutely refusing to yield to opposi-
tion, had grown slightly bitter, even slightly
vindictive in the process.

Brian could only watch in silent pain the
little figure beside him. Once at some violent
term of abuse she looked up, and glanced
for a moment at the speaker ; he just caught a
swift, indignant flash from her bright eyes, then
her head was bent lower than before over her
note-book, and the carnation deepened in her

' SUPPOSING IT IS TRUE !' 73

cheek, whilst her peucil sped over the paper fast
and furiously. Presently came a sharp retort
from Raebnrn, ending with the perfectly war-
rantable accusation that Mr. Randolph was
wandering from the subject of the evening
merely to indulge his personal spite. The audi-
ence was beginning to be roused by the unfair-
ness, and a storm might have ensued had not
Mr. Randolph unintentionally turned the whole
proceedings from tragedy to farce.

Indignant at Raeburn's accusation^ he sprang
to his feet and began a vigorous protest.

^ Mr. Chairman, I denounce my opponent as a
liar. His accusation is utterly false. I deny
the allegation, and I scorn the allegator !'

He was interrupted by a shout of laughter,
the w^hole assembly was convulsed, even Erica's
anger changed to mirth.

' Fit for Punch/ she whispered to Brian, her
face all beaming with merriment.

Raeburn, whose grave face had also relaxed
into a smile, suddenly stood up, and, with a
sort of dry Scotch humour, remarked,

' My enemies have compared me to many ob-

74 WE TWO.

noxious things, but never till to-night have I
been called a crocodile ! Possibly Mr. Randolph
has been reading of the crocodiles recently dis-
sected at Paris. It has been discovered that
they are almost brainless, and_, being without
reason, are probably animated by a violent in-
stinct of destruction. 1 believe, however, that
the power of their "jaw " is unsurpassed !'

Then, amidst shouts of laughter and applause,,
he sat down again, leaving the field to the
much discomfited Mr. Randolph.

Much harm had been done that evening to
the cause of Christianity. The sympathies of
the audience could not be with the weak
and immannerly Mr. Randolph ; they were
Englishmen, and were, of course, inclined to
side with the man who had been unjustly dealt
with, who, moreover, had really spoken to
them — had touched their very hearts.

The field was practically lost when, to the
surprise of all, another speaker came forward.
Erica, who knew that their side had had the
best of it, felt a thrill of admiration when she
saw Charles Osmond move slowly to the front

* SUPPOSING IT IS TRUE !' 75

of the platform. She was very tired, but out of
a sort of gratitude for his friendliness, a readi-
ness to do him honour, she strained her energies
to take dovrn his speech verbatim. It was not a
long one, it was hardly, perhaps, to be called a
speech at all, it was rather as if the man had
thrown his very self into the breach made by
the unhappy wrangle of the evening.

He spoke of the universal brotherliood and of
the wrong done to it by bitterness and strife ; he
stood there as the very incarnation of brother-
liness, and the people, whether they agreed
with him or not, loved him. In the place where
the religion of Christ had been reviled as well
by the Christian as by the atheist, he spoke of
the revealer of the Father, and a hush fell on the
listening men ; he spoke of the Founder of the
great brotherhood, and by the very reality, by
the fervour of his convictions, touched a new
chord in many a heart. It was no time for
argument, the meeting was- almost over ; he
scarcely attempted an answer to many of th&
difficulties and objections raised by Raebura
earlier in the evening. But there was in his

;

76 WE TWO.

ten miuutes' speech the whole essence of
Christianity, the spirit of loving sacrifice of
self, the strength of an absolute certainty which
no argument, however logical, can shake, the
extraordinary power which breathes in the as-
sertion, 'I hiow Him whom 1 have believed.'

To more than one of Raeburn's followers
there came just the slightest agitation of doubt,
the questioning whether these things might not
be. For the first time in her life the question
began to stir in Erica's heart. She had heard
many advocates of Christianity, and had re-
garded them much as we might regard Bud-
dhist missionaries speaking of a religion that
had had its day and was now only fit to be dis-
carded, or perhaps studied as an interesting
relic of the past, about which in its later years
many corruptions had gathered.

Raeburn, being above all things a just man,
had been determined to give her mind no bias
in favour of his own views, and as a child he
had left her perfectly free. But there was a
certain Scotch proverb which he did not call to
mind, that ' As the auld cock craws, the young

' SUPPOSIXG IT IS TRUE !' 77

cock learns.' When the time came at which he
considered her old enough really to study the
Bible for herself, she had already learnt from
bitter experience that Christianity — at any rate,
what called itself Christianity — was the religion
whose votaries were constantly slandering and
ill-treating her father, and that all the priva-
tions and troubles of their life were directly or
indirectly due to it. She of course identified
the conduct of the most unfriendly and per-
secuting with the religion itself; it could hardly
be otherwise.

But to-night as she toiled away, bravely act-
ing up to her lights, taking down the opponent's
speech to the best of her abilities, though pre-
disposed to think it all a meaningless rhapsody,
the faintest attempt at a question began to take
shape in her mind. It did not form itself exactly
into words, but just lurked there like a cloud-
shadow, — 'Supposing Christianity were true?'

All doubt is pain. Even this faint beginning
of doubt in her creed made Erica dreadfully
uncomfortable. Yet she could not regret that
Charles Osmond had spoken, even though she

78 WE TWO.

imagined him to be greatly mistaken, and feared
that that uncomfortable question might have
been suggested to others among the audience.
She could not wish that the speech had not
been made, for it had revealed the nobility of
the man, his broad-hearted love, and she in-
stinctively reverenced all the really great and
good, however widely different their creeds.

Brian tried in vain to read her thoughts ; but
as soon as the meeting was over her temporary
seriousness vanished, and she was once more
almost a child again, ready to be amused by
anything. She stood for a few minutes talking
to the two Osmonds ; then, catching sight of an
acquaintance a little way off, she bade them a
hasty good-night, much to Brian's chagrin, and
hurried forward with a warmth of greeting
which he could only hope was appreciated by
the thick-set honest-looking mechanic who
was the happy recipient. When they left the
ball, she was still deep in conversation with
him.

The fates Avere kind, however, to Brian that
day ; they were just too late for a train, and

' SUPPOSING IT IS TRUE !' 79

before the next one arrived, Eaeburn and Erica
were seen slowly coming down the steps, and
in another minute had joined them on the plat-
form. Charles Osmond and Raeburn fell into an
amicable discussion, and Brian, to his great satis-
faction, was left to an uninterrupted tete-a-tete
with Erica. There had been no further demon-
stration by the crowd, and Erica, now that the
anxiety w^as over, was ready to make fun of Mr.
Randolph and his band, checking herself every
now and then for fear of hurting her companion_,
but breaking forth again and again into irresist-
ible merriment as she recalled the ' alligator '
incident and other grotesque utterances. All
too soon they reached their destination. There
was still, however, a ten minutes' walk before
them, a walk which Brian never forgot. The
wind was high, and it seemed to excite Erica ;
he could always remember exactly how she
looked, her eyes bright and shining, her short,
auburn hair all blown about by the wind, one
stray wave lying across the quaint little seal-
skin hat. He remembered, too, how, in the
middle of his argument, Raeburn had stepped

80 WE TWO.

forward, and had wrapped a white woollen
scarf more closely round the child, securing the
fluttering ends. Brian would have liked to do
it himself had he dared, and yet it pleased him,
too, to see the father's thoughtfulness ; perhaps,
in that ' touch of nature,' he for the first time
fully recognised his kinship with the atheist.

Erica talked to him in the meantime with a
delicious, childlike frankness, gave him an en-
thusiastic account of her friend Hazeldine, the
working-man whom he had seen her speaking
to, and unconsciously revealed in her free con-
versation a great deal of the life she led, a busy,
earnest, self-denying life Brian could see. When
they reached the place of their afternoon's en-
counter, she alluded merrily to what she called
the 'charge of umbrellas.'

* Who would have thought, now, that in a
few hours' time we should have learnt to know-
each other !' she exclaimed. ' It has been alto-
gether the very oddest day, a sort of sandwich
of good and bad, two bits of the dry bread of
persecution^ but in between, you and Mr. Os-
mond and my beautiful new Longfellow.'

' SUPPOSING IT IS TRUE !' 81

Brian could not help laughing at the simile,
and was not a little pleased to hear the refer-
ence to his book ; but his amusement was soon
dispelled by a grim little incident. Just at that
minute they happened to pass an undertaker's
cart which was standing at the door of one of
the houses ; a coffin was borne across the pave-
ment in front of them. Erica, with a quick
exclamation, put her hand on his arm and
shrank back to make room for the bearers to
pass. Looking down at her, he saw that she
was quite pale. The coffin was carried into the
house and they passed on.

*HowIdo hate seeing anything like that!'
she exclaimed. Then looking back and up to
the windo\ys of the house, 'Poor people I I
Avonder whether they are very sad. It seems
to make all the world dark when one comes
across things like that. Father thinks it is
good to be reminded of the end, that it makes
one more eager to work, but he doesn't even
wish for anything after death, nor do any of the
best people I know. It is silly of me, but I
never can bear to think of quite coming to an
VOL. I. G

82 WE TWO.

end, I suppose because I am not so unselfish as
the others.'

' Or may it not be a natural instinct which is
implanted in all, which perhaps you have not
yet crushed by argument.'

Erica shook her head.

' More likely to be a Httle bit of one of my
covenanting ancestors coming out in me. Still
I own that the hope of the hereafter is the one
point in which you have the better of it. Life
must seem very easy if you believe that all will
be made up to you and all wrong set right
after you are dead. You see we have rather
hard measure here, and don't expect anything
at all by-and-by. But all the same I am al-
ways rather ashamed of this instinct, or self-
ishness, or Scottish inheritance, whichever it is !'

' Ashamed ! why should you be V

* It is a sort of weakness, I think, which
strong characters like my father are without.
You see he cares so much for everyone, and
thinks so much of making the world a little less
miserable in this generation, but most of my
love is for him and for my mother ; and so when

' SUPPOSING IT IS TRUE !' 83

I think of death — of their death ' she broke

off abruptly.

' Yet do not call it selfishness,' said Brian,
with a slightly choked feeling, for there had
been a depth of pain in Erica's tone. * My father,
who has just that love of humanity of which you
speak, has still the most absolute belief in — yes,
and longing for — immortality. It is no selfish-
ness in him.'

*I am sure it is not,' said Erica, warmly, 'I
shouldn't think he could be selfish in any way.
I am glad he spoke to-night ; it does one good
to hear a speech like that, even if one doesn't
agree with it. I wish there were a few more
clergymen like him, then perhaps the tolerance
and brotherliness he spoke of might become pos-
sible. But it must be a long way off, or it
would not seem such an unheard-of thing that
I should be talking like this to you. Why, it is
the first time in my whole life that I have
spoken to a Christian except on the most every-
day subjects.'

' Then I hope you won't let it be the last,'
said Brian.

g2

84 WE TWO.

' I should like to know Mr. Osmond better/
said Erica_, ' for you know it seems very extra-
ordinary to me that a clever scientific man can
speak as he spoke to-night. I sliould like to
know how you reconcile all the contradictions,
how you can believe what seems to me so un-
likely, how even if you do believe in a God you
can think Him good while the world is what it
is. If there is a good God why doesn't he
make us all know him, and end all the evil and
cruelty V

Brian did not reply for a moment. The familiar
gaslit streets, the usual number of passengers,
the usual careworn or viceworn faces passing by,
damp pavements, muddy roads, fresh winter
wind, all seemed so natural, but to talk of the
deepest things in heaven and earth was so un-
natural ! He was a very reserved man, but
looking down at the eager, questioning face
beside him his reserve all at once melted.
He spoke very quietly, but in a voice which
showed Erica that he was, at least, as she
expressed it 'honestly deluded.' Evidently he
did from his very heart believe what he said.

* SUPPOSING IT IS TRUE !' 85

' But how are we to judge what is best V he
replied. ' My belief is that God is slowly and
gradually educating the world, not forcing it on
unnaturally, but drawing it on step by step,
making it work out its own lessons as the best
teachers do with their pupils. To me^the idea of
a steady progression, in which man himself may
be a co-worker with God, is far more beautiful
than the conception of a Being who does not
work by natural laws at all, but arbitrarily
causes this and that to be or not to be.'

^But then if your God is educating the
■world, He is educating many of us in ignorance
of Himself, in atheism. How can that be good
or right'? Surely you, for instance, must be
rather puzzled when you come across atheists,
if you believe in a perfect God, and think
atheism the most fearful mistake possible V

' If I could not believe that God can, and
does, educate some of us through atheism I
should indeed be miserable,' said Brian, with a
thrill of pain in his voice which startled Erica.
* But I do believe that even atheism, even blank
ignorance of Him, may be a stage through.

SQ WE TWO.

^ which alone some of us can be brought onward.

• The noblest man I ever knew passed through

that stage, and I can't think he would have

C=i5: been half the man he is if he had not passed

through it.'

' I have only known two or three people who
from atheists became theists, and they were
horrid !' said Erica, emphatically. * People
always are spiteful to the side they have left.'

' You could not say that of my friend/ said
Brian, musingly. ' I wish you could meet
him.'

They had reached the entrance to Guilford
Terrace_, Kaeburn and Charles Osmond over-^
took them, and the conversation ended abruptly*
Perhaps because Erica had made no answer to
the last remark, and was conscious of a touch
of malice in her former speech^ she put a little
additional warmth into her farewell. At any
rate, there was that which touched Brian's very
heart in the frank innocence of her hand-clasp,
in the sweet yet questioning eyes that wer&
raised to his.

He turned away, happier and yet sadder than

« SUPPOSING IT IS TRUE I' 87

he had ever beeu in his life. Not a word pass-
ed between him and his father as they crossed
the square, but when they reached home they
instinctively drew together over the study fire.
There was a long silence even then, broken at
last by Charles Osmond.

' Well, my son V he said.

' I cannot see how I can be of the least use to
her,' said Brian, abruptly, as if his father had
been following the whole of his train of
thought, which, indeed^ to a certain extent he
had.

' Was this afternoon your first meeting V

' Our first speaking. I have seen her many
times, but only to-day realised what she
is.'

' Well, your little Undine is very bewitching,
and much more than bewitching, true to the
core and loyal and loving. If only the hard-
ness of her life does not embitter her, I think
she will make a grand woman.'

' Tell me what you did this afternoon/ said
Brian, ' you must have been some time with
them.'

88 WE TWO.

Charles Osmond told him all that had pass-
ed ; theu continued,

' She is, as I said, a fascinating bright little
Undine, inclined to be wilful, I should fancy,
and with a sort of warmth and quickness about
her whole character ; in many ways still a child,
and yet in others strangely old for her years ;
on the whole I should say as fair a specimen of
the purely natural being as you would often
meet with. The spiritual part of her is, I fancy,
asleep.'

' No, I fancy to-night has made it stir for the
first time,' said Brian, and he told his father a
little of what had passed between himself and
Erica.

^ And the Longfellow was, 1 suppose, from
you,' said Charles Osmond. ' I wish you could
have seen her delight over it ! Words absolute-
ly failed her. I don't think anyone else noticed
it, but, her own vocabulary coming to an end,
she turned to ours, it was '' What heavenly per-
son can have sent me this?" '

Brian smiled^ but sighed too.

' One talks of the spiritual side remaining

' SUPPOSING IT IS TRUE !' 89

untouched,' he said, ^ yet how is it ever to be
otherwise than chained and fettered, while such
men as that Randolph are recognised as the
champions of our cause, while injustice and un-
kindness meet her at every turn, while it is
something rare and extraordinary for a Chris-
tian to speak a kind word to her ! If to-day
she has first reahsed that Christians need not
necessarily behave as brutes, I have realised a
little what life is from her point of view.' '

' Then realising that perhaps you may help
her, perhaps another chapter of the old legend
may come true, and you may be the means of
waking the spirit in your Undine.'

' I ? Oh, no ! How can you think of it !
You or Donovan, perhaps, but even that idea
seems to me wildly improbable.'

There was something in his humility and
sadness which touched his father inexpres-
sibly.

' Well/ he said, after a pause, ' if you are
really prepared for all the suffering this love
must bring you, if you mean to take it, and
cherish it, and live for it, even though it brings

90 WE TWO.

you no gain, but apparent pain and loss, then I
think it can only raise both you and your
Undine.'

Brian knew that not one man in a thousand
would have spoken in such a way : his father's
unworldliness was borne in upon him as it had
never been before. Greatly as he had always
reverenced and loved him, to-night his love and
reverence deepened unspeakably — the two were
drawn nearer to each other than ever.

It was not the habit in this house to make
the most sacred ties of life the butt for ill-timed
and ill-judged joking. No knight of old thought
or spoke more reverently or with greater re-
serve of his lady-love than did Brian of Erica.
He regarded himself now as one bound to do
her service, consecrated from that day forward
as her loyal knight.

91

CHAPTER V.

ERICA^S RESOLVE.

Men are tatooed with their special beliefs like so many
South-Sea Islanders ; but a real human heart, with Divine
love in it, beats with the same glow under all the patterns
of all earth's thousand tribes.

O. AVendell Holmes.

For the next fortnight Brian and Erica con-
tinued to pass each other every afternoon in
Gower Street, as they had done for so long, the
only difference was that now they greeted each
other, that occasionally Brian would be render-
ed happy for the rest of the day by some brief,
passing remark from his Undine, or by one of
her peculiarly bright smiles. One day, how-
ever, she actually stopped ; her face was
radiant.

"92 WE TWO.

' 1 must just tell you our good news,' she
said. ^ My father has won his case, and has got
heavy damages.'

'lam very glad,' said Brian. 'It must be a
great relief to you all to have it over.'

* Immense I Father looks as if a ton's weight
had been taken off his mind ! Now I hope we
shall have a little peace.'

With a hasty good-bye, she hurried on^ an
unusual elasticity in her light footsteps. In
Ouilford Square she met a political friend of her
father's, and was brought once more to a stand-
still. This time it was a little unwillingly, for
Monsieur Noirol teased her unmercifully, and at
their last meeting had almost made her angry by
talking of a friend of his at Paris who offered un-
told advantages to any clever and well-educated
English girl who wished to learn the language,
and who would in return teach her own. Erica
had been made miserable by the mere sugges-
tion that such a situation Avould suit her ; the
slightest hint that it might be well for her to
go abroad had roused in her a sort of terror lest
her father might ever seriously think of the

erica's resolve. 93

scheme. She had not quite forgiven Monsieur
Noirol for having spoken, although the proposal
had not been gravely made, and probably only
persevered in out of the spirit of teasing. But
to-day Monsieur Noirol looked very grave.

' You have heard our good news V said Erica.
' Now, don't begin again about Madame Lemer-
cier's school ; I don't want to be made cross to-
day of all days, when 1 am so happy !'

' I will tease you no more, dear mademoiselle,'
said the Frenchman ; but he offered no con-
gratulations, and there was somethiug in his
manner w^hich make Erica uneasy.

' Is anything wrong? Has anything happen-
ed V she asked, quickly.

The Frenchman shrugged his shoulders.

' Who knows ! It is an evil world, Mademoi-
selle Erica, as you will realise when you have
lived in it as loug as I have. But I detain you.
Good-bye. Au rcvoir P

He took off his hat with a flourish, and passed

OD.

Erica, feeling baffled and a little cross,.
hurried home. Monsieur Noirol had not teased

^4 WE TWO.

her to-day, but he had been inscrutable and
tiresome, and he had made her feel uneasy.
She opened the front door, and went at once to
her father's study, pausing for a moment at the
sound of voices within. She recognised, how-
ever, that it was her cousin, Tom Craigie, who
was speaking, and without more dehiy she
entered. Then in a moment she understood
why M. Noirol had been so mysterious. Tom
was speaking quickly and strongly, and there
was a glow of anger on his face. Her father
"vvas standing with his back to the mantelpiece,
there was a sort of cold light in his eyes, which
filled Erica with dismay. Never in the most
anxious days had she seen him look at once so
anguy, jet so weighed down with care.

' What is the matter V she questioned, breath-
lessly, instinctively turning to Tom, whose hot
anger was more approachable.

' The scamp of a Christian has gone bank-
rupt,' he said, referring to the defendant in
the late action, but too furious to speak very
intelHgibly.

'Mr. Cheale, you mean'^ asked Erica.

erica's resolve. 95

* The scoundrel ! Yes ! So not a farthing of
costs and damages shall we see ! It's the most
fiendish thing ever heard of 1'

' \Yi]l the costs be very heavy?'

' Heavy ! I should think they would indeed !'
He named the probable sum ; it seemed a fearful
addition to the already existing burden of debts.

A look of such pain and perplexity came over
Erica's face that Raeburn, for the first time
realising what was passing in the room, drew
her towards him, his face softening, and the
cold angry light in his eyes changing to
sadness.

* Never mind, my child,' be said, with a sigh.
* 'Tis a hard blow, but we must bear up. In-
justice won't triumph in the end.'

There was something in his voice and look
which made Erica feel dreadfully inclined to cry ;
but that would have disgraced her for ever in
the eyes of stoical Tom, so she only squeezed
Lis hand hard and tried to think of that far
distant future of which she had spoken to
Charles Osmond, when there would be no
tiresome Christians and bigots and law-suits.'

96 WE TWO.

There was, however, one person in the house
wlio was invariably the recipient of all the
troubled confidences of others. In a very few-
minutes Erica had left the study and was curl-
ed up beside her mother's couch, talking out
unreservedly all her grief, and anger, and per-
plexity.

Mrs. Raeburn, delicate and invalided as she
was, had nevertheless a great deal of influence^
though perhaps neither Raeburn, nor Erica, nor
warm-hearted Tom Craigie, understood how
much she did for them all. She was so unas-
suming, so little given to unnecessary speech,
so reticent, that her life made very little show,
while it had become so entirely a matter of
course that everyone should bring his private
troubles to her that it would have seemed
extraordinary not to meet with exactly the
sympathy and counsel needed. To-day, how-
ever, even Mrs. Raeburn was almost too despon-
dent to cheer the others. It comforted Erica to
talk to her, but she could not help feeling very
miserable as she saw the anxiety and sadness in
her mother's face.

erica's resolve. 97

' What more can we do, mother V she
questioned. 'I can't think of a single thing we
can give np.'

' I really don't know, dear,' said her mother,
with a sigh. ' We have nothing but the abso-
lute necessaries of life now, except indeed your
education at the High School, and that is a very
trifling expense, and one which cannot be inter-
fered with.'

Erica was easily depressed, like most high-
spirited persons ; but she was not used to seeing
either her father or her mother despondent, and
the mere strangeness kept her from going down
to the very deepest depths. She had the feel-
ing that at least one of them must try to keep
up. Yet, do what she would, that evening was
one of the saddest and dreariest she had ever
spent. All the excitement of contest was over,
and a sort of dead weight of gloom seemed to
oppress them. Eaeburn was absolutely silent.
From the first Erica had never heard him com«
plain, but his anger, and afterwards his intense
depression, spoke volumes. Even Tom, her
friend and playfellow, seemed changed this

VOL. I. H

98 WE TWO.

evening, grown somehow from. a boy to a man ;
for there was a sternness about him which she
had never seen before, and which made the
days of their childhood seem far away. And
yet it was not so very long ago that she and
Tom had been the most light-hearted and care-
less beings in the world, and had imagined the
chief interest of life to consist in tending dor-
mice, and tame rats, and silkworms ! She won-
dered whether they could ever feel free again,
whether they could ever enjoy their long
Saturday afternoon rambles, or whether this
weight of care would always be upon them.

AVith a very heavy heart she prepared her
lessons for the next day, finding it somewhat
hard to take much interest in Magna Charta and
legal enactments in the time of King John,
when the legal enactments of to-day were so
much more mind-engrossing. Tom was sitting
opposite to her writing letters for Raeburn.
Once, notwithstanding his grave looks, she haz-
arded a question.

' Tom/ she said, shutting up her ' History

erica's. RESOLVE. 99

of the English People,' ' Tom, what do you think
will happen V

Tom looked across at her with angry yet
sorrowful eyes.

' 1 think,^ he said, sternly, ' that the chieftain
will try to do the work of ten men at once,
and will pay off these debts or die in the at-
tempt.'

The ' chieftain ' was a favourite name among
the Raeburnites for their leader, and there was
a great deal of the clan feeling among them.
The majority of them were earnest, hard-work-
ing, thoughtful men, and their society was both
powerful and well-organised, while their per-
sonal devotion to Raeburn lent a vigour and
vitality to the whole body which might other-
wise have been lacking. Perhaps comparatively
few would have been enthusiastic for the
cause of atheism had not that cause been repre-
sented by a high-souled, self-denying man
whom they loved with all their hearts.

The dreary evening ended at length, Erica
helped her mother to bed, and then with slow

h2

100 WE TWO.

steps climbed up to her little attic room. It
was cold and comfortless enough, bare of all
luxuries, but even here the walls were lined
with books, and Erica's little iron bedstead
looked somewhat incongruous, surrounded as it
was with dingy-looking volumes, dusty old
legal books, works of reference, books atheist-
ical^ theological, metaphysical, or scientific. On
one shelf amid this strangely heterogeneous
collection she kept her own particular treasures
— Brian's Longfellow, one or two of Dickens'
books which Tom had given her, and the
beloved old Grimm and Hans Andersen, which
had been the friends of her childhood, and which
for ' old sakes' sake ' she had never had the
heart to sell. The only other trace of her in
the strange little bed-room was in a wonderful
array of china animals on the mantelpiece. She
was a great animal-lover, and, being a favour-
ite with everyone^ she received many votive
offerings. Her shrine was an amusing one to
look at. A green china frog played a tuneless
guitar ; a pensive monkey gazed with clasped
hands and dreadfully human eyes into futurity;

erica's resolve. 101

there were sagacious-looking elephants, placid
rhinoceroses, rampant hares, two pug dogs
clasped in an irrevocable embrace, an enormous
lobster, a diminutive polar bear, and in the
centre of all a most evil-looking jackdaw about
half-an-inch high.

But to-night the childish side of Erica was in
abeyance ; the cares of womanhood seemed
gathering upon her. She put out her candle
and sat down in the dark, racking her brain
for some plan by which to relieve her father and
mother. Their life was growing harder and
harder. It seemed to her that poverty in itself
Avas bearable enough, but that the ever-increas-
ing load of debt was not bearable. As long as
she could remember, it had always been like a
mill-stone tied about their necks, and the cease-
less petty economies and privations seemed of
little avail ; she felt very much as if she were
one of the Danaids, doomed for ever to pour
water into a vessel with a hole in it.

Yet in one sense she was better off than many,
for these debts were not selfish debts — no one
had ever known Raeburn to spend an unneces-

102 WE TWO.

sary sixpence on himself; all this load had been
incurred in the defence of what he considered
the truth — by his unceasing struggles for liberty..
She was proud of the debts, proud to suffer in
what she regarded as the sacred cause ; but in
spite of that she was almost in despair this
evening, the future looked so hopelessly black.

Tom's words rang in her head — ' The chief-
tain will try to do the work often men !' What
if he overworked himself as he had done once a
few years ago ? What if he died in the attempt ?
She wished Tom had not spoken so strongly. In
the friendly darkness she did not try to check
the tears which would come into her eyes at the
thought. Something must be done ! She must
in some way help him ! And then, all at once,
there flashed into her mind Monsieur Noirol's
teasing suggestion that she should go to Paris;
Here was a way in which, free of all expense, she
might finish her education, might practically
earn her living ! In this way she might indeed
help to lighten the load, but it would be at the
cost of absolute self-sacrifice. She must leave
home, and father and mother, and country I

erica's resolve. 103

Erica was not exactly selfish but she was very
young. For a time the thought of the volun-
tary sacrifice seemed quite unbearable, she could
not make up her mind to it.

' Why should I give up all this ! Why should
prejudice and bigotry spoil my whole life V she
thought, beginning to pace up and down the
room with quick agitated steps. ' Why should
we suffer because that w^retch has gone bank-
rupt '^ It is unfair, unjust, it can't be right.'

She leant her arms on the window-sill, and
looked out into the silent night. The stars
Avere shiniog peacefully enough, looking down
on this world of strife and struggle ; Erica grew
a little calmer as she looked ; Nature, with its
majesty of calmness, seemed to quiet her
troubled heart and ' sweep gradual gospels
in.'

From some recess of memory there came to
her some half-enigmatical w^ords;they had been
quoted by Charles Osmond in his speech, but
she did not remember where she had heard
them, only they began to ring in her ears
now :

104 WE TWO.

' There is no gain except by loss,
There is no life except by death,

Nor glory but by bearing shame.
Nor justice but by taking blame.'

She did not altogether understand the verse,
but there was a truth in it which could hardly
fail to come home to one who knew what per-
secution meant. What if the very blame and
injustice of the present brought in the future'
I'eign of justice ! She seemed to hear her
father's voice saying again,

' We must bear up, child ; injustice won't
triumph in the end.'

' There is no gain except by loss !'

What if her loss of home and friends brought
gain to the world ! That was a thought which
brought a glow of happiness to her even in the
midst of her pain. There was, after all, much
of the highest Christianity about her, though
she would have been very much vexed if any-
one had told her so, because Christianity meant
to her narrow-mindedness instead of brotherly
love. However it might be, there was no

erica's resolve. 105

cleoying that the child of the great teacher of
atheism had grasped the true meaning of life,
had grasped it, and -svas prepared to act on it too.
She had always lived with those who were
ready to spend all in the promotion of the
general good ; and all that was true, all that
•was noble in her creed, all that had filled her
with admiration in the lives of those she loved,
came to her aid now.

She went softly down the dark staircase to
Kaeburn's study ; it was late, and, anxious not
to disturb the rest of the house, she opened
the door noiselessly and crept in. Her father
was sitting at his desk writing ; he looked
very stern, but there was a sort of grandeur
about his rugged face. He was absorbed in his
work and did not hear her, and for a minute she
stood quite still watching him, realising with
pain and yet with a happy pride how greatly
she loved him. Her heart beat fast at the
thought of helping him, lightening his load even
a little.

' Father,' she said^ softly.

Raeburn w^as the sort of man who could not

106 WE TWO.

be startled, but he looked up quickly, appar-
ently returning from some speculative region
Avith a slight effort. He was the most practical
of men, and yet for a minute he felt as if he
were living in a dream, for Erica stood beside him,
pale and beautiful, with a sort of heroic light
about her whole face which transformed her
from a merry child to a high-souled woman.
Instinctively he rose to speak to her.

'1 will not disturb you for more than a
minute, father,' she said, ' it is only that I have
thought of a way in which I think I could help
you if you would let me."*

' Well, dear, what is it V said Raeburn, still
watching half-dreamily the exceeding beauty
of the face before him. Yet an undefined sense
of dread chilled his heart. Was anything too
hard or high for her to propose? He listened
without a word to her account of Monsieur
Noirol's Parisian scheme, to her voluntary
suggestion that she should go into exile for
two years. At the end he merely put a brief
question.

107

' Are you ready to bear two years of lone-
liness V

* I am ready to help yon,' she said_, with a
little quiver in her voice and a cloud of pain in
her eyes.

Raeburn turned away from her and began to
pace up and down the little room, his eyes not
altogether free from tears, for, pachydermatous
as he was accounted by his enemies, this man was
very tender over his child, he could hardly en-
dure to see her pain. Yet after all, though she
had given him a sharp pang, she had brought
him happiness which any father might envy.
He came back to her, his stern face inexpressibly
softened.

'And I am ready to be helped, my child ; it
shall be as you say.'

There was something in his voice and in the
gentle acceptance of help from one so strong
and self-reliant which touched Erica more than
any praise or demonstrative thanks could have
done. They were going to work together, he
had promised that she should fight side by side
with him.

108 WE TWO.

' Law-suits may ruin us,' said Raeburn, ' but,
after all, the evil has a way of helping out the
good.' He put his arm round her and kissed
her. ' You have taught me, little one, how
powerless and weak are these petty persecutions.
They can only prick and sting us ! Nothing
can really hurt us while we love the truth and
love each other.'

That was the happiest moment Erica had
ever known, already her loss had brought a rap-
turous gain.

' I shall never go to sleep to-night,' she said.
' Let me help you with your letters.'

Raeburn demurred a little, but yielded to her
entreaties, and for the next two hours the father
and daughter worked in silence. The bitter-
ness which had lurked in the earlier part of the
pamphlet that Raeburn had in hand was quite
lacking in its close ; the writer had somehow
been lifted into a higher, purer atmosphere, and
if his pen flew less rapidly over the paper,
it at any rate wrote words which would
long outlive the mere overflow of an angry
heart.

erica's resolve. 109

Coming back to the world of realities at last
somewhere in the small hours, he found his fire
out, a goodly pile of letters ready for his signa-
ture, and his little amanuensis fast asleep in her
chair. Reproaching himself for having allowed
her to sit up, he took her in his strong arms as
though she had been a mere baby, and carried
her up to her room so gently that she never
woke. The next morning she found herself so
swathed in plaids and rugs and blankets that
she could hardly move, and, in s;)ite of a bad
headache_, could not help beginning the day
with a hearty laugh.

Raeburn was not a man who ever let the
grass grow under his feet_, his decisions were
made with thought, but with very rapid thought^
and his action was always prompt. His case
excited a good deal of attention ; but long be-
fore the newspapers had ceased to wage war
either for or against him, long before the week-
ly journals had ceased to team with letters re-
lating to the law-suit, he had formed his plans
for the future. His home was to be completely
broken up. Erica was to go to Paris, his wife

110 WE TWO.

was to live with his sister, Mrs. Craigie, and her
son Tom, who had agreed to keep on the lodg-
ings in Guilford Terrace, while for himself he
had mapped out such a programme of work as
could only have been undertaken by a man of
' Titanic energy ' and * Herculean strength,'
epithets which even the hostile press invariably
bestowed on him. How great the sacrifice was
to him few people knew. As we have said be-
fore, the world regarded him as a target, and
would hardly have believed that he was in
reality a man of the gentlest tastes, as fond of
his home as any man in England_, a faithful
friend and a devoted father, and perhaps all the
more dependent on the sympathies of his own
circle because of the bitter hostility he encoun-
tered from other quarters. But he made his
plans resolutely, and said very little about
them either one way or the other, sometimes
even checking Erica when she grumbled for
him^ or gave vent to her indignation with re-
gard to the defendant.

* We work for freedom, little one,' he used to

erica's resolve. Ill

say ; ' and it is ao honour to suffer in the cause
of liberty.'

' But everyone says you will kill yourself with
overwork/ said Erica, ' and especially when you
are in America.'

' They donH know what stuff I'm made of/
said Raeburn ; ' and, even if it should use me up,
what then? It's better to wear out than to
rust out, as a wise man once remarked.'

' Yes,' said Erica, rather faintly.

• But I've no intention of wearing out just
yet,' said Raeburn, cheerfully. • You need not be
afraid, little son Eric ; and, if at the end of
these two years you do come back to find me
grey and wrinkled, what will that matter so
long as we are free once more. There's a good
time coming : we'll have the cosiest little home
in London yet.'

' With a garden for you to work in,' said
Erica, brightening up like a child at the castle
in the air. ' And we'll keep lots of animals,
and never bother again about money all our
lives.'

112 WE TWO.

Raeburn smiled at her ideas of felicity — no
cares, and plenty of dogs and cats ! He did
not anticipate any haven of rest at the end of
the two years for himself He knew that his life
must be a series of conflicts to the very end.
Still he hoped for relief from the load of debt,
and looked forward to the re-establishment of
his home.

Brian Osmond heard of the plans before long,
but he scarcely saw Erica ; the Christmas holi-
days began, and he no longer met her each
afternoon in Gower Street, while the time drew
nearer and nearer for her departure for Paris.
At lengthy on the very last day, it chanced that
they were once more thrown together.

Raeburn was a great lover of flowers, and he
very often received floral offerings from his
followers. It so ha])pened that some beautiful
hot-house flowers had been sent to him from a
nursery garden one day in January, and, un-
willing to keep them all, he had suggested that
Erica should take some to the neighbouring
hospitals. Now there were two hospitals in Guil-
ford Square ; Erica felt much more interested

erica's resolve. 113

in the children's hospital than in the one for
grown-iip people ; but, wishing to be impartial,
she arranged a basketful for each, and well-
pleased to have anything to give^ hastened on
her errand. Much to her delight_, her first basket
of flowers was not only accepted very grate-
fully, but the lady superintendent took her over
the hospital, and let her distribute the flowers
among the children. She was very fond of
children, and was as happy as she could be
passing up and down among the little beds,
while her bright manner attracted the little
ones, and made them unusually affectionate and
responsive.

Happy at having been able to give them
pleasure^ and full of tender womanly thoughts,
she crossed the square to another small hospital ;
she was absorbed in pitiful loving humanity,
had forgotten altogether that the world count-
ed her as a heretic, and, wholly unprepared for
what awaited her, she was shown into the
visitors' room and asked to give her name.
Not only was Raeburn too notorious a name to
pass muster, but the head of the hospital knew

VOL. I. I

114 WE TWO.

Erica by sight, and had often met her out
of doors with her father. She was a stiff,
narrow-minded, uncompromising sort of person,
and in her own words was ' determined to have
no fellowship with the works of darkness.'
How she could consider bright-faced Erica,
with her loving thought for others and her
free gift, a ' work of darkness,' it is hard to
understand. She was not at all disposed, how-
ever, to be under any sort of obligation to an
atheist, and the result of it was that, after a
three minutes' interview. Erica found herself
once more in the square, with her flowers still
in her hand, * declined ivitJwut thanks.'

No one ever quite knew what the superinten-
dent had said to her, but apparently the rebuff
bad been very hard to bear. Not content with
declining any fellowship with the poor little
' work of darkness,' she had gone on in accord-
ance with the letter of the text to reprove
her; and Erica left the house with burning
cheeks, and with a tumult of angry feeling
stirred up in her heart. She was far too angry
to know or care what she w^as doing ; she walk-

erica's resolve. 115

ed down the quiet square in the very opposite
direction to ' Persecution Alley,' and might
have walked on for an indefinite time had not
some one stopped her.

' I was hoping to see you before you left,'
said a pleasant, quiet voice close by her. She
looked up^ and saw Charles Osmond.

Thus suddenly brought to a standstill, she
became aware that she was trembling from
head to foot. A little delicate sensitive thing,
the unsparing censure and the rude reception
3he had just met with had quite upset her.

Charles Osmond retained her hand in his
strong clasp, and looked questioningly into her
bright, indignant eyes.

' What is the matter my child V he asked.

^ I am only angry,' said Erica, rather breath-
lessly, ' hurt and angry, because one of your
bigots has been rude to me.'

' Come in, and tell me all about it,' said
Charles Osmond ; and there was something so
irresistible in his manner that Erica at once
allowed herself to be led into one of the tall,
old-fashioned houses and taken into a comfort-

i2

116 WE TWO.

able and roomy study, the nicest room she had
ever been in. It was not luxurious, indeed, the
Turkey carpet was shabby and the furniture
well-worn, but it was homelike, and warm and
cheerful, evidently a room which was dear to
its owner.

Charles Osmond made her sit down in a cap-
acious arm-chair close to the fire.

' Well, now, who was the bigot V he said,
in a voice that would have won the confidence
of a flint.

Erica told as much of the story as she could
bring herself to repeat, quite enough to show
Charles Osmond the terrible harm which may
be wrought by tactless modern Christianity.
He looked down very sorrowfully at the eager
expressive face of the speaker, it was at once
very white and very pink, for the child was
sorely wounded as well as indignant. She was
evidently, however, a little vexed with herself
for feeling the insult so keenly.

' It is very stupid of me,' she said, laughing
a little, * it is time I was used to it, but I never
can help shakiug in this silly way when any-

ERICA^S RESOLVE. Il7

one is rude to us. Tom laughs at me, aud says
I am made on wire springs like a twelfth-
cake butterfly ! But it is rather hard, isn't it,
to be shut out from everything, even from
giving V

' I think it is both hard and wrong,' said
Charles Osmond. ' But we do not all shut you
out.'

' No,' said Erica. ' You have always been
kind, you are not a bit like a Christian. .AVould
you,' — she hesitated a little, — ' would you take
the flowers instead V

It was said with a shy grace inexpressibly
winning. Charles Osmond was touched and
gratified.

' They will be a great treat to us/ he said.
' My mother is very fond of flowers. Will you
come upstairs and see her ? We shall find
afternoon tea going on, I expect.'

So the rejected flowers found a resting-place
in the clergyman's house^ and Brian coming in
from his rounds was greeted by a sight which
made his heart beat at double time. In the
<drawing-room beside his grandmother sat

118 WE TWO.

Erica, her little fur hat pushed back, her gloves
off, busily arranging Christmas roses and red
camellias. Her anger had died away, she was
talking quite merrily. It seemed to Briau
more like a beautiful dream than a bit of every-
day life, to have her sitting there so naturally
in his home ; but the note of pain was struck
before long.

' I must go home,' she said. ' This is my
last day, you know. I am going to Paris to-
morrow.'

A sort of sadness seemed to fall on them at
the words, only gentle Mrs. Osmond said,
cheerfully,

* You will come to see us again when you
come back, will you not V

And then with the privilege of the aged she
drew down the young fresh face to hers and
kissed it.

' You will let me see you home,' said Brian.
' It is getting dark.'

Erica laughingly protested that she was Avell
used to taking care of herself, but it ended in
Brian's triumphing. So together they crossed

erica's resolye. 119

the quiet square. Erica chattered away merrily
enough, but as they reached the narrow en-
trance to Guilford Terrace a shadow stole over
her face.

' Oh !' she exclaimed, ' this is the last time I
shall come home for two w4iole years.'

' You go for so long V said Brian, stifling a
sigh. 'You won't forget your English friends/

' Do you mean that you count yourself our
friend V asked Erica, smiling.

' If you will let me.'

' That is a funny word to use,' she replied,
laughing. 'You see, we are treated as outlaws
generally. I don't think anyone ever said
" will you let " to me before. This is our house ;
thank you for seeing me home.' Then, with a
roguish look in her eyes, she added, demurely,
but with a slight emphasis on the last word,
' Good-bye, my friend.'

Brian turned away sadly enough, but he had
not gone far when he heard flying footsteps,
and looking back saw Erica once more.

' Oh, I just came to know whether by any
chance you want a kitten,' she said, ' I have a

120 WE TWO.

real beauty which T want to find a nice home for.'

Of course Brian wanted a kitten at once ;
one would have imagined by the eagerness of
his manner that he was devoted to the whole
feline tribe.

* Well, then, will you come in and see it,'
said Erica. ' He really is a very nice kitten,
and I shall go away much happier if I can see
him settled in life first.'

She took him in, introduced him to her
mother, and ran off in search of the cat, return-
ing in a few minutes with a very playful-look-
ing tabby.

' There he is,' she said, putting the kitten on
the table with an air of pride. * I don't believe
he has an equal in all London.'

' What do you call him V asked Brian.

'His name is St. Anthony/ said Erica. "Oh,
I hope, by-the-by, you won't object to that, it
was no disrespect to St. Anthony at all, but only
that he always will go and preach to my gold
fish. We'll make him do it now to show you.
Come along, Tony, and give them a sermon,
there's a good little kit !'

erica's resolve. 121

She put him on a side table, and he at once
rested his front paws on a large glass bowl and
peered down at the gold fish with great
curiosity.

' I believe he would have drowned himself
sooner or later, like Gray's cat, so I daresay it
is a good thing for him to leave. You will be
kind to him, won't you?'

Brian promised that he should be well attend-
ed to, and indeed there w^as little doubt that
St. Anthony would from that day forth be lap-
ped in luxury. He went away with his new
master very contentedly, Erica following them
to the door with farewell injunctions.

' And you'll be sure to butter his feet well, or
-else he won't stay with you. Good-bye, dear
Tony. Be a good little cat I'

Brian was pleased to have this token from his
Undine, but at the same time ho could not help
seeing that she cared much more about parting
with the kitten than about saying good-bye to
him. Well, it was something to have that
lucky St. Anthony, who had been fondled and
kissed. And after all it was Erica's very child-

122 WE TWO.

ishness and simplicity which made her so dear
to him.

As soon as they were out of sight, Erica, with
the thought of the separation beginning to
weigh upon her. went back to her mother.
They knew that this was the hist quiet time
they should have together for many long
months. But last days are not good days for
talking. They spoke very little. Every now
and then Mrs. Raeburn would make some
inquiry about the packing or the journey, or
would try to cheer the child by speaking of the
home they would have at the end of the two
years. But Erica was not to be comforted, a
dull pain was gnawing at her heart, and the
present was not to be displaced by any visions
of a golden future.

' If it were not for leaving ^^ou alone, mother,
I shouldn't mind so much,' she said, in rather a
choked voice. ' But it seems to me that you
have the hardest part of all.'

' Aunt Jean will be here, and Tom,' said Mrs.
Raeburn.

' Aunt Jean is very kind,' said Erica, doubt-

erica's resolve. 123

fully. 'But she doesn't know how to nurse
people. Tom is the one hope, and he has
promised always to tell me the whole truth
about you ; so, if you get worse, I shall come
home directly.'

' You mustn't grudge me my share of the
work/ said Mrs. Kaeburn. ' It would make me
very miserable if I did hinder you or your
father.'

Erica sighed.

' You and father are so dreadfully public
spirited ! And yet, oh, mother ! what does the
whole world matter to me if I think you are
uncomfortable, and wretched, and alone V

' You will learn to think differently, dear, by-
and-by,' said her mother, kissing the eager
troubled face. * And, when you fancy me lone-
ly, you can picture me instead as proud and
happy in thinking of my brave little daughter
who has gone into exile of her own accord to
help the cause of truth and liberty.'

They were inspiriting words, and they
brought a glow to Erica's face ; she choked
down her own personal pain. No religious

124 , WE TWO.

martyr went through the time of trial more
bravely than Luke Raeburn's daughter lived
through the next four-and-twenty hours. She
never forgot even the most trivial incident of
that day, it seemed burnt in upon her brain.
The dreary waking on the dark winter morn-
ing, the hurried farewells to her aunt and Tom,
the last long embrace from her mother, the
drive to the station, her father's recognition on
the platform, the rude staring and ruder com-
ments to which they were subjected, then the
one supreme wrench of parting, the look of
pain in her father s face, the trembling of his
voice, the last long look as the train moved off,
and the utter loneliness of all that followed. Then
came dimmer recollections, not less real but more
confused, of a merry set of fellow-passengers
who were going to enjoy themselves in the
South of France ; of a certain little packet which
her father had placed in her hand, and which
proved to be 'Mill on Liberty'; of her eager
perusal of the first two or three chapters ; of the
many instances of the ' tyranny of the majority '
which she had been able to produce not without

erica's resolve. 125

a certain satisfaction. And afterwards more
vividly she could recall the last look at England,
the dreary arrival at Boulogne, the long, weary
railway journey, and the friendly reception
at Madame Lemercier's school. No one could
deny that her new life had been bravely
begun.

126

CHAPTER VI.

PARIS.

But we wake in the young morning when the light is

breaking forth ;
And look out on its misty gleams, as if the noon were full ;
And the Infinite around, seems but a larger kind of earth
Ensphering this, and measured by the self-same handy rule.
Hilda among the Broken Gods.

Not unfrequently the most important years of a
life, the years which tell most on the character_,
are unmarked by any notable events. A steady,
orderly routine, a gradual progression, persever-
ance in hard work, often do more to educate
and form than a varied and eventful life.
Erica's two years of exile were as monotonous
and quiet as the life of the secularist's daughter
could possibly be. There came to her, of

PARIS. 127

course, from the distance the echoes of her
father's strife ; but she was far removed from it
all, and there was little to disturb her mind in
the quiet Parisian school. There is no need to
dwell on her uneventful life, and a very brief
description of her surroundings will be sufficient
to show the sort of atmosphere in which she
lived.

The school w^as a large one, and consisted
principally of French provincial girls, sent to
Paris to finish their education. Some of them
Erica liked exceedingly ; every one of them was
to her a curious and interesting study. She
liked to hear them talk about their home life,
and, above all things, to hear their simple, naive
remarks about religion. Of course she was on
her honour not to enter into discussions with
them, and they regarded all English as heretics,
and did not trouble themselves to distinguish
between the different grades. But there was no-
thing to prevent her from observing and listen-
ing, and with some wonder she used to hear
discussions about the dresses for the ' Premiere
Communion,' remarks about the various services,

128 WE TWO.

or laments over the coufession papers. The
girls went to confession once a month, and
there was always a day in which they had ta
prepare and write out their misdemeanours.
One day, a little, thin, delicate child from the
South of France came up to Erica with her con-
fession in her hand.

' Dear, good Erica,' she said, wearily, ' have
the kindness to read this, and to correct my
mistakes.'

Erica took the little thing on her knee and
began to read the paper. It was curiously
spelt. Before very long she came to the sen-
tence, ' J^ai trop mange.'

' Why, Ninette,' exclaimed Erica, * you hardly
eat enough to feed a sparrow ; it is nonsense to
put that.'

' Ah, but it was a fast day,' sighed Ninette,
' And I felt hungry, and did really eat more
than I need have.'

Erica felt half angry and contemptuous, half
amused, and could only hope that the priest
w^ould see the pale, thin face of the little penitent
and realise the ludicrousness of the confession.

PARIS. 129

Another time all the girls had been to some
special service ; on their return she asked what
it had been about.

' Oh,' remarked a bright-faced girl, 'it was about
the seven joys — or the seven sorrows — of Mary.''

' Do you mean to say you don't know whether
it was very solemn or very joyful V asked Erica,
astonished and amused.

' I am really not sure,' said the girl, with the
most placid good-tempered indifference.

On the whole, it was scarcely to be wondered
at that Erica was not favourably impressed with
Roman Catholicism.

She was a great favourite with all the girls ;
but, though she was very patient and persever-
ing, she did not succeed in making any of them
fluent English speakers, and learnt their lan-
guage far better than they learnt hers. Her
three special friends were not among the pupils,
but among the teachers. Dear old Madame
Lemercier with her good-humoured black eyes,
her kind demonstrative ways, and her delight-
ful stories about the time of the war and
the siege, was a friend worth having. So was

VOL. I. K

IBO

WE TWO.

her husband, Monsieur Lemercier the journalist.
He was a little dried-up man, with a fierce
black moustache ; he was sarcastic and witty,
and he would talk politics by the hour together
to anyone who would listen to him, especially
if they would now and then ask a pertinent and
intelligent question which gave him scope for

an oration.

Erica made a delightful listeQei- for she was
always anxious to learia and to understaad, and
before long she was quite au fait, and under-
stood a great deal about that exceedingly com-
plicated thing, the French political system.
Monsieur Lemercier was a fiery, earnest little
man with very strong convictions ; he had been
exiled as a Communist but had now returned,
and was a very vigorous and impassioned writer
in one of the advanced Republican journals. He
and his wife became very fond of Erica, Madame
Lemercier loving her for her brightness and
readiness to help, and monsieur for her beauty
and her quickness of perception. It was sur-
prising and gratifying to meet with a girl who,
■(vithout being afemme savante, was yet capable

PARIS. 131

of understanding the difference between the
Extrenae Left and the Left Centre, and who took
a real interest in what was passing in the
world.

But Erica's greatest friend was a certain
Fraulein Sonnenthal, the German governess.
She was a kind-eyed Hanoverian, homely and
by no means brilliantly clever, but there was
something in her unselfishness and in her un-
assuming humility that won Erica's heart. She
never would hear a word against the Fraulein.

' Wh}^ do you care so much for Fraulein
Sonnenthal V she was often asked. ' She seems
uninteresting and dull to us.'

' I love her because she is so good,' was Erica's
invariable reply.

She and the Fraulein shared a bed-room, and
many were the arguments they had together.
The effect of being separated from her own
people was, very naturally, to make Erica a
more devoted Secularist. She was exceedingly
enthusiastic for what she considered the truth,
and not unfrequently grieved and shocked the
Lutheran Fraulein by the vehemence of her

k2

132 WE TWO.

statements. Very often they would argne far
on into the niglit ; they never quarrelled, how-
ever hot the dispute, but the fraulein often had
a sore time of it ; for, naturally, Luke Raeburn's
daughter was w^ell-up in all the debateable
points, and she had, moreover, a good deal of
her father's rapidity of thought and gift of
speech. She was always generous, however,
and the Fraulein had in some respects the ad-
vantage of her, for they spoke in German.

One scene in that little bed-room Erica never
forgot. They had gone to bed one Easter-eve,
and had somehow fallen into a long and stormy
argument about the resurrection and the doc-
trine of immortality. Erica, perhaps because she
was conscious of the ' weakness ' she had con-
fessed to Brian Osmond, argued very warmly on
the other side ; the poor little Fraulein was
grieved beyond measure^ and defended her faith
gallantly, though as she feared very ineffectu-
ally. Her arguments seemed altogether ex-
tinguished by Erica's remorseless logic, she was
not nearly so clever, and her very earnestness
seemed to trip her up and make all her sen-

PARIS. 133

tences broken and incomplete. They discussed
the subject till Erica was hoarse, and at last from
very weariness she fell asleep while the Lutheran
was giving her a long quotation from St. Paul.

She slept for two or three hours ; when she
woke, the room was flooded with silvery moon-
light, the w^ooden cross which hung over the
German's bed stood out black and distinct, but
the bed was empty. Erica looked round the
room uneasily, and saw a sight which she
never forgot.

The Fraulein was kneeling beside the win-
dow, and even the cold moonlight could not
chill or hide the wonderful brightness of her
face. She was a plain, ordinary little woman,
but her face was absolutely transformed ; there
was something so beautiful and yet so unusual
in her expression that Erica could not speak or
move, but lay watching her almost breathlessly.
The spiritual world about which they had been
speaking must be very real indeed to Thekla
Sonnenthal ! Was it possible that this was
the work of delusion ? While she mused, her
friend rose, came straight to her bedside, and

134 ^VE T^YO.

bent over her with a look of such love and
tenderness that Erica, though not generally
demonstrative could not resist throwing her
arms round her neck.

' Dear Sunnyvale ! you look just like your
name !' she exclaimed, ' all brightness and hu-
mility! AVhat have you been doing to grow so
like Murillo's Madonna V

'I thought you were asleep/ said the Frau-
lein. ' Good night, JierzhldttcJien, or rather
good morning, for the Easter Day has
begun/

Perhaps Erica liked her all the better for
saying nothing more definite, but in the or-
dinary sense of the word she did not have a
good night, for long after Thekla Sonnenthal
was asleep, and dreaming of her German home,
Luke Raeburn's daughter lay awake, thinking
of the faith which to some was such an intense
reality. Had there been anything excited or
unreal about her companion's manner, she
would not have thought twice about it, but her
tranquillity and sweetness seemed to her very
remarkable. Moreover, Fraulein Sonnenthal

PARIS. 135

was strangely devoid of imagination ; she was a
matter-of-fact little person, not at all a likely
subject for visions and delusions. Erica was
perplexed. Once more there came to her that
uncomfortable question, — ' Supposing Christi-
anity were true V

The moonlight paled and the Easter morn
broke, and still she tossed to and fro haunted
by doubts which would not let her sleep. But
by-and-by she returned to the one thing which
was absolutely certain, namely that her Ger-
man friend was loveable and to be loved, what-
ever her creed.

And, since Erica's love was of the practical
order, it prompted her to get up early, dress
noiselessly, and steal out of the room without
waking her companion ; then, with all the church
bells ringing and the devout citizens hurrying
to mass, she ran to the nearest flower-stali,
spent one of her very few half-francs on the
loveliest white rose to be had, and carried it
back as an Easter offering to the Frauleiu.

It was fortunate in every way that Erica
had the little German lady for her friend, for

136 WE T^YO.

she would often have fared badly without some
one to nurse and befriend her.

She was very delicate, and worked far too
hard ; for, besides all her work in the school, she
was preparing for an English examination
which she had set her heart on trying as soon
as she went home. Had it not been for Frau-
lein Sonnenthal, she would more than once
have thoroughly overworked herself ; and in-
deed as it was, the strain of that two years
told severely on her strength.

But the time wore on rapidly, as very fully
occupied time always does, and Erica's list of
days grew shorter and shorter, and the letters
from her mother were more and more full of
plans for the life they would lead when she
came home. The two years would actually
end in January ; Erica was however to stay in
Paris till the following Easter, partly to oblige
Madame Lemercier, partly becan.se by that
time her father hoped to be in a great measure
free from his embarrassments, able once more
to make a home for her.

137

CHAPTER VII.

WHAT THE XEW YEAR BROUGHT.

A voice grows with tlie growing years ;
Earth, hushing down her bitter cry,
Looks upward from her graves, and hears,
' The Resurrection and the Life am L'

O Love Divine, — whose constant beam
Shines on the eyes that will not see,
' And waits to bless us, while we dream
Thou leavest us because we turn from Thee !

Nor bounds, nor clime, nor creed Thou know'st,
AVide as our need Thy favours fall ;
The white wings of the Holy Ghost
Stoop, seen or unseen, o'er the heads of all.

Whittier.

It was the eve of the New Year, and great
excitement prevailed in the Lemerciers' house.
Many of the girls whose homes were at a dis-
tance had remained at school for the short

138 WE TWO.

winter holiday, and on this particular afternoon
a number of them were clustered round the
stove talking about the festivities of the
morrow and the presents they were likely to
have.

Erica^ who was now a tall and very pretty girl
of eighteen, was sitting on the hearthrug with
Ninette on her lap ; she was in very high spirits
and kept the little group in perpetual laughter,
so much so indeed that Fraulein Sonnenthal
had more than once been obliged to interfere,
and do her best to quiet them.

' How wild thou art, dear Erica !' she exclaim-
ed. ' What is it r

' I am happy, that is all,' said Erica. ' You
would be happy if the year of freedom were
just dawning for you. Three months more and
I shall be home !'

She was like a child in her exultant happi-
ness, far more child-like, indeed, than the
grave little Ninette w^hom she was nursing.

'Thou art not dignified enough for a teacher,*
said the Fraulein, laughingly.

' She is no teacher,' cried the girls. ' It i&

TVHAT THE NEW YEAR BROUGHT. 139

holiday time, and she need not talk that fright-
ful English.'

Erica made a laughing defence of her native
tongue, and such a babel ensned that the Frau-
lein had to interfere again.

' Liebe Erica ! Thou art beside thyself. What
has come to thee?'

' Only joy, dear Thekla, at the thought of the
beautiful New Year which is coming,' cried
Erica. 'Father would say I was ''fey," and
should pay for all this fun with a bad headache
or some misfortune. Come, give me the French
" David Copperfield," and let me read you how
" Barkis veut bien ' and ^' Mrs. Gummidge a pense
de I'ancien." '

The reading was more exquisitely ludicrous
to Erica herself than to her hearers. Still the
wit of Charles Dickens, even when translated,
called forth peals of laughter from the French
girls, too. It was the brightest happiest little
group imaginable ; perhaps it was scarcely
wonderful that old Madame Lemercier, when
she came to break it up, should find her eyes
dim with tears.

140 WE TWO.

' My dear Erica ' she said, and broke-oft

abruptly.

Erica looked Tip with laughing eyes.

* Don't scold, dear madame,' she said, coax-
iugly. ' We have been very noisy ; but it is New
Year's Eve, and we are so happy.'

^ Dear child, it is not that,' said madame. ' I
want to speak to you for a minute ; come with
me, chcrie.^

Still Erica noticed nothing ; did not detect the
tone of pity, did not wonder at the terms of
endearment which were generally reserved for
more private use. She followed madame into
the hall, still chattering gaily.

'The " David Copperfield^' is for monsieur's
present to-morrow,' she said, laughingly. ' I
knew he was too lazy to read it in English, so
I got him a translation.'

'My dear,' said madame^ taking her hand,
' try to be quiet a moment. I — I have something
to tell you. My poor little one, monsieur your
father is arrived '

' Father ! father here !' exclaimed Erica, in a
transport of delight. 'Where is he, where?'

WHAT THE NEW YEAR BROUGHT. 141

Oh, madame, why didn't yoii tell me sooner?'

Madame Lemercier tried in vain to detaia
her, as with cheeks all glowing with happiness
and dancing eyes, she ran at full speed to the
salon.

' Father !' she cried, throwing open the door
and running to meet him. Then suddenly she
stood quite still as if petrified.

Beside the crackling wood fire, his arms on
the chimney-piece, his face hidden, stood a grey-
haired man. He raised himself as she spoke.
His news was in his face, it was written all too
plainly there.

' Father I' gasped Erica, in a voice which
seemed altogether different from the first ex-
clamation, almost as if it belonged to a differ-
ent person.

Raeburn took her in his arms.

' My child — my poor little Eric,' he said.

She did not speak a word, hut clung to him
as though to keep herself from falling. In one
instant it seemed as though her whole world
had been wrecked, her life shattered. She
could not even realise that her father was

142 WE TWO.

still left to her, except in so far as the mere
bodily support was concerned. He was strong ;
she clung to him as in a hurricane she would
iiave clung to a rock.

' Say it/ she gasped, after a timeless silence
perhaps of minutes, perhaps of hours, it might
have been centuries for aught she knew. ' Say
it in words.'

She wanted to know everything, wanted to
reduce this huge, overwhelming sorrow to
something intelligible. Surely in words it
would not be so awful — so limitless.

And he said it, speaking in a low repressed
voice, yet very tenderly, as if she had been a
little child. She made a great effort to listen,
but the sentences only came to her disjointedly,
and as if from a great distance. It had been
very sudden — a two hours' illness, no very
great suffering. He had been lecturing at
Birmingham — had been telegraphed for — had
been too late.

Ei-ica made a desperate effort to realise it all ;
at last she brought down the measureless agony
to actual words, repeating them over and over
to herself — ' Mother is dead.'

WHAT THE NEW YEAR BROUGHT. 143

At length she had grasped the idea ! Her
heart seemed to die within her, a strange blue
shade passed over her face, her limbs stiffened.
She felt her father carry her to the window, was
perfectly conscious of everything, watched as
in a dream whilst he wrenched open the clumsy
fastening of the casement, heard the voices in
the street below, heard too in the distance the
sound of churcli bells, was vaguely conscious of
relief as the cold air blew upon her.

She was lying on a couch, and, if left to
herself, might have lain there for hours in that
strange state of absolute prostration. But she
was not alone, and gradually she realised it.
Very slowly the re-beginning of life set in, the
consciousness of her father's presence awaken-
ed her as it were from her dream of unmitigated
pain. She sat up, put her arms round his neck
and kissed him ; then for a minute let her ach-
ing head rest on his shoulder. Presently, in a
low but steady voice, she said,

' What would you like me to do, father V

' To come home with me now if you are able,'
he said ; ' to-morrow morning, though, if you
would rather wait, dear.'

144 WE TWO.

But the idea of waiting seemed intolerable to
her. The very sound of the word was hatefuL
Had she not waited two weary years, and this
was the end of it all? Any action, any present
doing however painful, but no more waiting !
No terrible pause in which more thoughts and,
therefore, more pain might grow. Outside in.
the passage they met Madame Lemercier, and
presently Erica found herself surrounded by
kind helpers, wondering to find them all so
tearful when her own eyes felt so hot and dry.
They were very good to her ; but, separated
from her father, her sorrow again completely
overwhelmed her, she could not then feel the
slightest gratitude to them or the slightest
comfort from their sympathy. She lay motion-
less on her little white bed, her eyes fixed on the
wooden cross on the opposite wall, or from time
to time glancing at Fraulein Sonnenthal, who,
with little Ninette to help, was busily packing
her trunk. And all the while 'she said again
and again the words which summed up her
sorrow,

' Mother is dead ! Mother is dead !'

TVHAT THE NEW YEAK BROUGHT. 145

After a time her eyes fell on her elaborate-
ly-drawn paper of days. Every evening since
her first arrival she had gone through the al-
most religious ceremony of marking-ofF the
day ; it had often been a great consolation to
her. The paper was much worn ; the weeks
and days yet to be marked were few in number.
She looked at it now, and if there can be a
'more' to absolute grief, an additional pang to
unmitigated sorrow, it came to her at the sight
of that visible record of her long exile. She
snatched down the paper and tore it to jDieces ;
then sank back again, pale and breathless,
Fraulein Sonnenthal saw and understood. She
came to her, and kissed her.

' Herzblattchen,' she said, almost in aw^iisper^
and, after a moment's pause, ' Ein feste Burg ist
nnser Gott.'

Erica made an impatient gesture, and turned
away her head.

' Why does she choose this time of all others
to tell me so,' she thought to herself. ' Now,
"when I can't argue or even think ! A sure
tower ! Could a delusion make one feel that

YOL. I. L

146 WE TWO.

anything is sure but death at such a time as
this ! Everything is gone — or going. Mother
is dead ! — mother is dead ! Yet she meant to be
be kind, poor Thekla, she didn't know it would
hurt.'

Madame Lemercier came into the room with
a cup of coifee and a brioche.

' You have a long journey before you, my
little one/ she said ; ' you must take this before
you start.'

Yes, there was the journey ! that was a com-
fort. There was som.ething to be done, some-
thing hard and tiring — surely it would blunt
her perceptions ! She started up with a strange
sort of energy, put on her hat and cloak, swal-
lowed the food with an effort, helped to lock
her trunk, moved rapidly about the room, look-
ing for any chance possession which might have
been left out. There was such terrible anguish
in her tearless eyes that little Ninette shrank
away from her in alarm. Madame Lemercier,
who in the time of the siege had seen great
suffering, had never seen anything like this ;
even Thekla Sonnenthal realised that for the

WHAT THE NEW YEAR BROUGHT. 147

time she was beyond the reach of human
comfort.

Before long the farewells were over. Erica
was once more alone with her father, her cheeks
w^et with the tears of others, her own eyes still
hot and dry. They were to catch the four
o'clock train ; the afternoon was dark, and al-
ready the streets and shops were lighted ;
Paris, ever bright and gay, seemed to-night
brighter and gayer than ever. She watched
the placid-looking passengers_, the idle loungers
at the cafes ; — did they know what pain was ?
Did they know that death was sure ? Present-
ly she found herself in a second-class carriage,
wedged-in between her father and a heavy-
featured priest, who diligently read a little
dogs'-eared breviary. Opposite was a meek,
weasel-faced bourgeois, with a managing wife,
who ordered him about ; then came a bushy-
whiskered Englishman and a newly-married
couple, while in the further corner, nearly hidden
from view by the burly priest, lurked a gentle-
looking Sister of Mercy, and a mischievous and
fidgetty schoolboy. She watched them all as

l2

148 WE TWO.

in a dream of pain. Presently the priest left-off
muttering and began to snore, and sleep fell,
too, upon the occupants of the opposite seat.
The little weasel-faced man looked most un-
comfortable, for the Englishman used him as
a prop on one side and the managing wife
nearly overwhelmed him on the other ; he slept
fitfully, and always with the air of a martyr,
waking up every few minutes and vainly trying
to shake off his burdens, who invariably made
stifled exclamations and sank back again.

' That would have been funny once,' thought
Erica to herself. ' How I should have laughed.
Shall I always be like this all the rest of my
life, seeing what is ludicrous, yet with all the
fun taken out of it?'

But her brain reeled at the thought of the
' rest of life.' The blank of bereavement, terri-
ble to allj was absolute and eternal to her, and
this was her first great sorrow. She had known
pain, and privation, and trouble and anxiety,
but actual anguish never. Now it had come to
her, suddenly, irrevocably, never to be either
more or less ; perhaps to be fitted on as a gar-

WHAT THE NEW YEAR BROUGHT. 149

ment as time wore on, and to become a natural
part of her life ; but always to be the same, a
blank often felt, always present, till at length
her end came and she too passed away into the
great Silence.

Despair — the deprivation of all hope — is
sometimes wild, but oftener calm with a death-
ly calmness. Erica was absolutely still, — she
scarcely moved or spoke during the long weary
journey to Calais. Twice only did she feel the
slightest desire for any outward vent. At the
Amiens station the school-boy in the corner,
who had been growing more restless and
excited every hour, sprang from the carriage to
greet a small crowd of relations who were
waiting to welcome him. She saw him rush to
his mother, heard a confused, affectionate Babel
of tongues, inquiries, congratulations, laughter.
Oh! to think of that happy light-heartedness
and the contrast between it and her grief.
The laughter seemed positively to cut her ; she
could have screamed from sheer pain. And, as
if cruel contrasts were fated to confront her,
no sooner had her father established her in the

150 WE TWO.

cabin on board the steamer, than two bright-
looking Enghsh girls settled themselves .close
hjj and began chatting merrily about the New
Year and the novel beginning it would be on
board a Channel steamer. Erica tried to stop
her ears that she might not hear the discussion
of all the forthcoming gaieties : ' Lady Keed-
ham's dance on Thursday, our own, you know,
next week/ &c,, &c. But she could not shut
out the sound of the merry voices, or that
wounding laughter.

Presently an exclamation made her look and
listen.

' Hark !' said one of her fellow-passengers.
' We shall start now ; I heard the clock striking
twelve. A happy New Year to you, Lily, and
all possible good fortune.'

' Happy New Year !' echoed from different
corners of the cabin ; the little Sister of Mercy
knelt down and told her beads, the rest of the
passengers talked, congratulated, laughed.
Erica would have given worlds to be able to
cry, but she could not. The terrible mockery
of her surroundings was too great, however.

WHAT THE NEW YEAR BROUGHT. 151

to be borne ; her heart seemed like ice, her head
like fire, with a sort of feverish strength she
rushed out of the cabin, stumbled up the wind-
ing staircase, and ran as if by instinct to that
part of the deck where a tall, solitary figure
stood up darkly in the dim light.

* It's too cold for you, my child,' said Raeburn,
turning round at her approach.

' Oh, father, let me stay with you,' sobbed
Erica, *■ I can't bear it alone.'

Perhaps he was glad to have her near
him for his own sake, perhaps he recog-
nised the truth to which she unconsciously
testified that human nature does at times cry
out for something other than self, stronger and
higher.

He raised no more objections, they listened in
silence till the sound of the church bells died
away in the distance, and then he found a more
sheltered seat and wrapped her up closely in his
own plaid, and together they began their new
year. The first lull in Erica's pain came in that
midnight crossing; the heaving of the boat, the
angry dashing of the waves, the foam-laden

152 WE TWO.

wind, all seemed to relieve her. Above all,
there was comfort in the strong protecting
arm round her. Yet she was too crushed and
numb to be able to wish for anything but that
the end might come for her there, that together
they might sink down into the painless silence
of death.

Raeburn only spoke once throughout the pas-
sage, instinctively he knew what was passing
in Erica's mind. He spoke the only word of
comfort which he had to speak : a noble one,
though just then very insufficient :

' There is work to be done.''

Then came the dreary landing in the middle
of the dark winter's night, and presently they
w^ere again in a railway carriage but this time
alone. Raeburn made her lie down, and him-
self fell asleep in the opposite corner; he had
been travelling uninterruptedly for twenty
hourSj had received a shock which had tried
him very greatly, now from sheer exhaustion he
slept. But Erica, to ^vhom the grief was more
new, could not sleep. Every minute the pain
of realisation grew keener. Here she w^as.in

WHAT THE IsEW YEAR BROUGHT. 153

England once more, this was the journey she
had so often thought of and planned. This
was going home ! Oh, the dreariness of the
reality when compared with those bright ex-
pectations ! And yet it was neither this thought
nor the actual fact of her mother's death
which first brought the tears to her burning
eyes.

Wearily shifting her position, she looked
across to the other side of the carriage, and
saw, as if in a picture, her father. Kaeburn
was a comparatively young man, very little
over forty ; but his anxieties and the almost in-
credible amount of hard work of the past two
years had told upon him, and had turned his
hair grey. There was something in his stern
set face, in the strong man's reserved grief, in
the pose of his grand-looking head, dignified
even in exhaustion, that was strangely pa-
thetic. Erica scarcely seemed to realise that he
was her father. It was more as if she were
gazing at some scene on the stage, or on a
wonderfully graphic and heart-stirring picture.
The pathos and sadness of it took hold of her ;

154 WE TWO.

she burst into a passion of tears, turned her
face from the light, and cried as if no power
on earth could ever stop her, her long-drawn
sobs allowed to go unchecked since the noise
of the train made them inaudible. She was so
little given to tears, as a rule, that now they
positively frightened her, nor could she under-
stand how, with a real and terrible grief for
which she could not weep, the mere pathetic
sight should have brought down her tears like
rain. But the outburst brought relief with it,
for it left her so exhausted that for a brief half-
hour she slept, and awoke just before they
reached London, with such a frightful headache
that the physical pain numbed the mental.

' How soon shall we be ' home she would

have said, but the word choked her. ' How
soon shall we get there V she asked, faintly.
She was so ill, so weary, that the mere thought
of being still again — even in the death-visited
home — was a relief, and she was really too
much worn out to feel very acutely wdaile they
drove through the familiar streets.

At last, early in the cold, new year's morn-

WHAT THE NEW YEAR BROUGHT. 155

lug, they were set down in Guilford Square, at
the grim entrance to 'Persecution Alley.' She
looked round at the grey old houses with a
shudder ; then her father drew her arm within
his, and led her down the dreary little cul de sac.
There was the house, looking the same as ever,
and there was Aunt Jean coming forward to
met them, with a strange new tenderness in her
voice and look, and there was Tom in the back-
ground, seeming half shy and afraid to meet
her in her grief, and there, above all, was the
one great eternal void.

To watch beside the dying must be anguish,
and yet surely not such keen anguish as to
have missed the last moments, the last fare-
wells, the last chance of serving. For those
who have to come back to the empty house^
the home which never can be home again, may
God comfort them — no one else can.

Stillness, and food, and brief snatches of
sleep somewhat restored Erica. Late in the
afternoon she was strong enough to go into her
mother's room, for that last look so inexpressibly

156 WE TWO.

painful to all, so entirely void of hope or comfort
to those who believe in no hereafter. Not even
the peacefulness of death was there to give
even a slight, a momentary relief to her pain ;
she scarcely even recognised her mother. Was
thatj indeed, all that was left ? that pale, rigid,
utterly changed face and form ? Was that her
mother? Could that once have been her mo-
ther? Very often had she heard this great
change wrought by death referred to in dis-
cussions ; she knew well the arguments which
w^ere brought forward by the believers in im-
mortality, the counter arguments with which
her father invariably met them, and which had
always seemed to her conclusive. But some-
how that which seemed satisfactory in the
lecture-hall did not answer in the room of
death. Her whole being seemed to flow out
into one longing question. Might there not be
a Beyond — an Unseen? Was this w^orld in-
deed only

' A place to stand and love in for an hour,
With darkness and the death-hour rounding it ?'

She had slept in the afternoon, but at night.

WHAT THE NEW YEAR BROUGHT. 157

when all was still, she could Dot sleep. The
question still lurked in her mind ; her sorrow
and loneliness grew almost unbearable. She
thought if she could only make herself cry
again perhaps she might sleep, and she took
down a book about Giordano Bruno, and read
the account of his martyrdom, an account
which always moved her very much. But to-
night not even the description of the valiant
unshrinking martyr of Freethought ascendiug
the scaffold to meet his doom could in the
slightest degree affect her. She tried another
book, this time Dickens' ' Tale of Two Cities.'
She had never read the last two chapters
without feeling a great desire to cry ; but to-
night she read with perfect unconcern of Sidney
Carton's wanderings through Paris on the
night before he gave himself up, — read the last
marvellously-written scene without the slight-
est emotion. It was evidently no use to try
anything else ; she shut the book, put out her
candle, and once more lay down in the-
dark.

Then she began to think of the words which

158 WE TWO.

bad so persistently haunted Sidney Carton, * I
am the Resurrection and the Life.' She, too,
seemed to be wandering about the Parisian
streets, hearing these words over and over
again. She knew that it was Jesus of Nazareth
who had said this. What an assertion it was
for a man to make ! It was not even ' I bring
the resurrection ' or ' I give the resurrection,' but
* I am the Resurrection ' ! And yet, according
to her father, his humility had been excessive,
carried almost to a fault. Was he the most in-
consistent man that ever lived, or what was he ?
At last she thought she would get up and see
whether there was any qualifying context, and
when and where he had uttered this tremendous
saying.

Lighting her candle she crept, a little shiver-
ing, white-robed figure, round the book-lined
room, scanning the titles on every shelf, but
Bibles were too much in use in that house to be
relegated to the attics, she found only the least
interesting and least serviceable of her father's
books. There was nothing for it but to go
down to the study ; so wrapping herself up, for

WHAT THE NEW YEAR BROUGHT. 159

it was a freezing wiiiter^s i^igtit, she went noise-
lessly downstairs, and soon found every possible
facility for biblical research.

A little baffled and even disappointed to find
the words in that which she regarded as the
least authentic of the gospels, she still resolved
to read the account ; she read it, indeed, in two
or three translations, and conapared each closely
with the others, but in all the words stood out
in uncompromising greatness of assertion. This
man claimed to he the resurrection, or as Wyclif
had it, the ^ agen risyng and lyf.'

And then poor Erica read on to the end
of the story and was quite thrown back
upon herself by the account of the miracle which
followed. It was a beautiful story, she said to
herself, poetically written, graphically described,
but as to believing it to be true, she could as
soon have accepted the ' Midsummer Night's
Dream ' as having actually taken place.

Shivering with cold she put the books back
on their shelf, and stole upstairs once more to
bear her comfortless sorrow as best she could.

160

CHAPTER VIII.

' WHY DO YOU BELIEVE IT V

Then the round of weary duties, cold and formal, came to

meet her,
With the life within departed that had given them each a

soul ;
And her sick heart even slighted gentle words that came to

greet her,

For grief spread its shadowy pinions like a blight upon the

whole.

A. A. Procter.

The winter sunshine which glanced in a side-
long, half-and-half way into ' Persecution Alley,'
and struggled in at the closed blinds of Erica's
little attic, streamed unchecked into a far more
cheerful room in Guilford Square, and illum-
ined a breakfast-table, at w^hich was seated
one occupant only, apparently making a late

WHY DO YOU BELIEVE IT ? 161

and rather hasty meal. He was a man of about
eight and twenty, and though he was not ab-
solutely good-looking, his face was one which
people turned to look at again, not so much
because it was in any way striking as far as
features went, but because of an unusual lumiu-
ousness which pervaded it. The eyes, which
were dark grey, were peculiarly expressive, and
their softness, which might to some have seemed
a trifle unmasculine, was counterbalanced by the
straight, dark, noticeable eyebrows, as well as
by a thoroughly manly bearing and a general
impression of unfailing energy which character-
ised the whole man. His hair, short beard and
moustache were of a deep nut-brown. He was
of medium height and very muscular-looking.

On the whole it was as pleasant a face as you
would often meet with, and it was not to be
wondered at that his old grandmother looked
up pretty frequently from her arm-chair by the
fire, and watched him with that beautiful loving
pride which in the aged never seems exaggerated
and very rarely misplaced.

' You were out very late, were you not,
VOL. I. M

162 WE TWO.

Brian V she observed, letting her knitting-
needles rest for a minute, and scrutinising the
rather weary-looking man.

' Till half-past five this morning,' he replied,
in a somewhat preoccupied voice.

There was a sad look in his eyes, too, which
his grandmother partly understood. She knit-
ted another round of her sock and then said,

' Have you seen Tom Craigie yet V

'Yes, last night I came across him,' replied
Brian. ' He told me she had come home. They
travelled by night and got in early yesterday
morning.'

* Poor little thing!' sighed old Mrs. Osmond.
' What a home-coming it must have been !'

' Grannie,' said Brian, pushing back his chair
and drawing nearer to the fire, ' I want you to
tell me what I ought to do. I have a message
to her from her mother, there was no one else
to take it, you know, except the landlady, and
I suppose she did not like that. I want to
know when I might see her; one has no right to
keep it back, and yet how am I to know
whether she is fit to bear it ? I can't write it

WHY DO YOU BELIEVE IT ? 163

down, it won't somehow go on to paper, yet I
can hardly ask to see her yet.'

' AVe cannot tell that the message might not
comfort her,' said Mrs. Osmond. Then after
a few minutes' thought she added, ' I think,
Brian, if I were you, I would write her a
little note, tell her why you want to see her,
and let her fix her own time. You will
leave it entirely in her own hands in that
way.'

He mnsed for a minute, seemed satisfied
with the suggestion, and, moving across to
the writing-table, began his first letter to his
love. Apparently it Avas hard to write, for
he wasted several sheets, and much time that
he could ill afford. When it was at length
finished, it ran as follows ;

* Dear Miss Raeburx,

' I hardly like to ask to
see you yet for fear you should think me
intrusive, but a message was intrusted to me
on Tuesday night which I dare not of my-
self keep back from you. Will you see me ?

M 2

164 WE TWO.

If you are able to, and will name the time

which will suit you best, I shall be very

grateful. Forgive me for troubling you,
and believe me,

' Yours faithfully,

'Brian Osmond.'

He sent it off a little doubtfully, hy no
means satisfied that he had done a wise
thing. But when he returned from his rounds
later in the day the reply set his fears at
rest.

It was written lengthways across a sheet
of paper : the small delicate writing was full
of character, but betrayed great physical ex-
haustion.

*■ It is good of you to think of us. Please
come this afternoon if you are able.

^ Erica.'

That very afternoon ! Now that his wish
was granted, now that he was indeed to see
her, Brian would have given worlds to have
postponed the meeting. He was well accus-

WHY DO YOU BELIEVE IT ? 165

tomed to visiting sorrow-stricken people, but
from meeting such sorrow as that in theRaeburns'
house he shrank back feeling his insufficiency.
Besides, what words were delicate enough to
convey all that had passed in that death-scene?
How could he dare to attempt in speech all that
the dying mother would fain have had conveyed
to her child? And then his own love ! Would
not that be the greatest difficulty of all ? Feel-
ing her grief as he did^ could he yet modify
his manner to suit that of a mere outsider — •
almost a stranger? He w^as very diffident;
though longing to see Erica, he would yet have
given anything to be able to transfer his work
to his father. This, however, was of course
impossible.

Strange though it might seem^ he — the most
unsuitable of all men in his own eyes — was the
man singled out to bear this message, to go to
the death-visited household. He went about
his afternoon work in a sort of steady, mechan-
ical manner, the outward veil of his inward
agitation. About four o'clock he was free to go
to Guilford Terrace.

166 WE TWO.

He was shown into the little. sitting-room ; it
was the room in which Mrs. Raeburn had died,
and the mere sight of the outer surroundings,
the well-worn furniture, the book-lined walls,
made the whole scene vividly present to him.
The room was empty, there was a blazing fire
but no other light, for the blinds were down,
and even the winter twilight shut out. Brian
sat down and waited. Presently the door
opened, he looked up and saw Erica approach-
ing him. She was taller than she had been
w^hen he last saw her, and now grief had given
her a peculiar dignity which made her much
more like her father. Every shade of colour
had left her face, her golden-brown eyes were
full of a limitless pain, the eyelids were slightly
reddened, but apparently rather from sleepless-
ness than from tears, the whole face was so
altered that a mere casual acquaintance would
hardly have recognised it, except by the un-
changed waves of short auburn hair which still
formed the setting as it were to a picture, love-
ly even now. Only one other thing was un-
changed, and that was the frank, unconvention-

WHY DO YOU BELIEVE IT ? 167

al manner. Even in her grief she conld not be
quite like other people.

' It is very good of you to let me see you,'
said Brian, ' you are sure you are doing right ;
it will not be too much for you to-day.'
* * There is no great difference in days^ I think,'
said Erica, sitting down on a low chair beside
the fire. 'I do not very much believe in de-
grees in this kind of grief, I do not see why it
should be ever more or ever less. Perhaps I
am, wrong, it is all new to me.'

She spoke in a slow, steady, low-toned voice.
There was an absolute hopelessness about her
whole aspect which was terrible to see. A mo-
ment's pause followed, then, looking up at
Brian, she fancied that she read in his face
something of hesitation, of a consciousness that
he could ill express what he wished to say, and
her innate courtesy made her even now hasten
to relieve him.

* Don't be afraid of speaking,' she said, a
softer light coming into her eyes. 'I don't
know why people shrink from meeting trouble.
Even Tom is half afraid of me. I am not

168 WE TWO.

changed, I am still Erica; can't you understand
how much I want everyone now V

* People differ so much V said Brian, a little
huskily, ' and then when one feels strongly
words do not come easily.'

' Do you think I would not rather have your
sympathy than an oration from anyone else !
You who were here to the end ! you who did
everything for — for her. My father has told
me very little, he was not able to, but he told
me of you, how helpful you were, how good,
not like an outsider at all !'

Evidently she clung to the comforting recol-
lection that at least one trustable, sympathetic
person had been with her mother at the last.
Brian could only say how little he had done,
how much more he would fain have done had
it been possible.

' I think you do comfort me by talking,' said
Erica. ' And now I want you, if you don't
mind, to tell me all from the very first. I can't
torture my father by asking him, and I couldn't
bear it from the landlady. But you were here,
you can tell me all. Don't be afraid of hurting

WHY DO YOU BELIEVE IT ? 169

me ; can't you understand, if the past were the
only thing left to you, you would want to know
every tiniest detail V

He looked searchingly into her eyes, he
thought she was right. There were no degrees
to pain like hers ! besides, it was quite possible
that the lesser details of her mother's death
might bring tears which would relieve her.
Very quietly, very reverently, he told her all
that had passed, — she already knew that her
mother had died from aneurism of the heart, — he
told her how in the evening he had been sum-
moned to her, and from the first had known that
it was hopeless, had been obliged to tell her that
the time for speech even was but short. He had
ordered a telegram to be sent to her father at
Birmingham, but Mrs. Craigie and Tom were
out for the evening, and no one knew where
they were to be found. He and the landlady
had been alone.

'She spoke constantly of you,' he continued.
' The very last words she said were these, " Tell
Erica that only love can keep from bitterness,
that love is stronger than the world's un-

170 WE TWO.

kindness." Then after a minute's pause she
added, " Be good to my little girl, promise to be
good to her." After that, speech became im-
possible, but I do not think she suffered. Once
she motioned to me to give her the frame off
the mantelpiece w^ith your photograph; she
looked at it and kept it near her, — she died
■with it in her hand.'

Erica hid her face ; that one trifling little in-
cident was too much for her, the tears rained
down between her fingers. That it should
have come to that ! no one whom she loved there
at the last — but she had looked at the photo-
graph, had held it to the very end, the voiceless,
useless picture had been there, the real Erica had
been laughing and talking at Paris ! Brian talk-
ed on slowly, soothingly. Presently he paused;
then Erica suddenly looked up, and dashing
away her tears, said, in a voice which was terri-
ble in its mingled pain and indignation,

*■ I might have been here ! I might have
been with her ! It is the fault of that wretched
man who w^ent bankrupt ; the fault of the bigots
who will not treat us fairly — who ruin us !'

WHY DO YOU BELIEVE IT ? 171

She sobbed with passionate pain, a vivid
streak of crimson dyed her cheek, contrasting
strangely with the deathly whiteness of her
brow.

' Forgive me if I pain yon,' said Brian ; ' but
have you forgotten the message I gave you ?
" It is only love that can keep from bitter-
ness !" '

' Love !^ cried Erica ; she could have screamed
it, if she had not been so physically exhausted.
' Do you mean I am to love our enemies !'

* It is only the love of all humanity that can
keep from bitterness,' said Brian.

Erica began to think over his reply, and in
thinking grew calm once more. By-and-by
she lifted up her face; it was pale again now,
and still, and perfectly hopeless.

' I suppose you think that only Christians
can love all humanity,' she said, a little coldly.

' I should call all true lovers of humanity
Christians,' replied Brian, ' whether they are
consciously followers of Christ or not.'

She thought a little; then, with a curiously hard
look in her face, she suddenly flashed round upon

172 WE TWO.

bim with a questioD, much as her father was in
the habit of doing when an adversary had
made some broad-hearted statement which had
baffled him.

' Some of you give us a little more charity
than others ; but what do you mean by Christ-
ianity ? You ask us to believe what is iucredi-
ble. Why do you believe in the resurrection?
What reason have you for thinking it true V

She expected him to go into the evidence
question, to quote the number of Christ's
appearances, to speak of the five hundred wit-
nesses of whom she was weary of hearing. Her
mind was proof against all this ; what could be
more probable than that a number of devoted
followers should be the victims of some optical
delusion, especially when their minds were
disturbed by giief. Here was a miracle sup-
ported on one side by the testimony of five
hundred and odd spectators all longing to see
their late Master, and contradicted on the other
side by common-sense and the experience of the
remainder of the human race during thousands
of years ! She looked full at Brian, a hard yet

WHY DO YOU BELIEVE IT ? 17^

almost exultant expression in her eyes, which
spoke more plainly than words her perfect con-
viction : —

'You can't set your evidences against my
counter-evidences ! you can't logically maintain
that a few uneducated men are to have more
weight than all the united experience of man-
kind.'

Never would she so gladly have believed in
the doctrine of iai mortality as now, yet with
characteristic honesty and resoluteness she set
herself into an attitude of rigid defence, lest
through strong desire or mere bodily weariness
she should drift into the acceptance of what
might be, what indeed she considered to be
error. But to her surprise, half to her
disappointment, Brian did not even mention the
evidences. She had braced herself up to
withstand arguments drawn from the five
hundred brethren, but the preparation was
useless.

' I believe in the resurrection/ said Brian,
* because I cannot doubt Jesus Christ. He is
the most perfectly loveable and trustable Being

174 WE TWO.

I know, or can conceive of knowing. He said
He should rise again, I believe that He did rise.
He was perfectly truthful, therefore He could
not mislead : He knew, therefore He could not
be misled.'

' W do not consider Him to be all that you
assert,' said Erica. ' Nor do His followers
make one inclined to think that either He or His
teaching Avere so perfect as you try to make
out. You are not so hard-hearted as most of
them '

She broke off, seeing a look of pain on her
companion's face.

' Oh, what am I saying !' she cried, in a very
different tone, ' you who have done so much —
you who were always good to us, — I did not
indeed mean to hurt you^ it is your creed that
I can't help hating, not you. You are our
friend, you said so long ago.'

'Always,' said Brian, 'never doubt that.'

' Then you must forgive me for having
wounded you/ said Erica, her whole face
softening. ' You must remember how hard it
all is, and that I am so very, very miserable.'

WHY DO YOU BELIEVE IT ? 175

He would have given his life to bring her
comfort, but he was not a very great believer
in words, and, besides, he thought she had talked
quite as long as she ought.

' I think,' he said, ' that, honestly acted out,
the message entrusted to me ought to c iifort
your misery.'

* 1 can't act it out,' she said.

' You will begin to try,' was Brian's answer ;
and then, with a very full heart, he said good-
bye and left his Undine sitting by the fire,
with her head resting on her hands and the
words of her mother's message echoing in her
ears. 'It is only love that can keep from
bitterness, love is stronger than the w^orld's un-
kindness.*

Presently, not daring to dwell too much on
that last scene which Brian had described, she
turned to his strange, unexpected reason for his
belief in the resurrection, and mused over the
characteristics of his ideal. Then she thought
she would like to see again what her ideal man
had to say about his, and she got up and
searched for a small book in a Hmp red cover.

176 WE TWO.

labelled ' Life of Jesus of Nazareth. Luke Rae-
burn.' It was more than two years since she
had seen it ; she read it through once more. The
style was vigorous, the veiled sarcasms were
not unpleasant to her, she detected no unfair-
ness in the mode of treatment, the book satis-
fied her, the conclusion arrived at seemed to
her inevitable — Brian Osmond's ideal was not
perfect.

With a sigh of utter weariness she shut the
book and leant back in her chair with a still,
white, hopeless face. Presently Friskarina
spraug up on her knee with a little sympa-
thetic mew ; she had been too miserable as yet
to notice even her favourite cat very much,
now a scarcely perceptible shade of relief came
to her sadness, she stroked the soft grey head*
But scarcely had she spoken to her favourite,
w^hen the cat suddenly turned away, sprang
from her knee and trotted out of the room. It
seemed like actual desertion, and Erica could
ill bear it just then.

' What, you too, Friskie,' she said to herself,
' are even you glad to keep away from me?'

WHY DO YOU BELIEVE IT ? 177

She hid her face in her hands ; desolate and
miserable as she had been before, she now felt
more completely alone.

In a few minutes something warm touching
her foot made her look up, and with one bound
Friskarina sprang into her lap, carrying in her
mouth a young kitten. She purred contented-
ly, looking first at her child and then at her
mistress, saying as plainly as if she had spoken,

' Will this comfort you V

Erica stroked and kissed both cat and kitten,
and for the first time since her trouble a feeling
of warmth came to her frozen heart.

VOL. I. N

178

CHAPTER IX.

ROSE.

A life of unalloyed content,

A life like that of land-locked seas.

J. R. Lowell.

^ Elspeth, you really must tell me, I'm dying of
curiosity, and I can see by your face you know
all about it ! How is it that grandpapa^s name
is in the papers when he has been dead all these
years ? I tell you I saw it, a little paragraph in
to-day's paper, headed, ' Mr. Luke Raeburn.' Is
this another namesake who has something to do
with him V

The speaker was a tall, bright-looking girl of
eighteen, a blue-eyed, flaxen-haired blonde,
with a saucy little mouth, about which there
now lurked an expression of undisguised

ROSE. 179

curiosity. Rose^ for that was her name, was
something of a coax, and all her life long she
had managed to get her own way ; she was an
only child, and had been not a little spoilt ; but
in spite of many faults she was loveable, and
beneath her outer shell of vanity and self-
satisfaction there lay a sterling little heart.

Her companion, Elspeth, was a wrinkled old
woman, whose smooth grey hair was almost
hidden by a huge mob-cap, which, in defiance
of modern custom, she wore tied under her
chin. She had nursed Rose and her mother
before her, and had now become more like a
family friend than a servant.

''Miss Rose,' she replied, looking up from her
workj ' if you go on chatter-magging aw^ay
like this, there'll be no frock ready for you to-
night/ and with a most uncommunicative air,
the old woman turned away, and gave a little
impressive shake to the billowy mass of white
tarlatan to which she was putting the finishing-
touches.

* The white lilies just at the side,' said Rose,
her attention diverted for a moment. ' Won't

N 2

180 WE TWO.

it be lovely ! the prettiest dress in. the room, I'm
sure/ Then, her en riositj returning, 'But, Els-
peth. I shan't enjoy the dance a bit unless you
tell me what Mr. Luke Raeburn has to do with
us? Listen, and I'll tell you how I found out.
Papa brought the paper up to mamma, and
said, "Did you see thisf And then mamma
read it, and the colour came all over her face,
and she did not say a word, but went out of
the room pretty soon. And then I took up the
paper, and looked at the page she had been
reading, and saw grandpapa's name.'

' What was it about?' asked old Elspeth.

' That's just what I couldn't understand; it
was all about secularists. What are secularists ?
But it seems that this Luke Raeburn, whoever
he is, has lost his wife. While he was lecturing
at Birmingham on the soul, it said his wife
died, and this paragraph said it seemed like a
judgment, which was rather cool^ I think.'

'Poor laddie !' sighed old Elspeth.

' Elspeth/ cried Rose. ' do you know who the
man is V

' Miss Rose,^ said the old woman, severely,

ROSE. 181

*iii my youDg days there was a saying that
you'd do well to lay to heart, '• Ask no ques-
tions, and you'll be told no stories." '

'It isn't your young days now, it's your old
days, Elsie/ said the inaperturbable Rose. ' I will
ask you questions as much as I please, and
you'll tell me what this mystery means, there's
a dear old nursie ! Have I uot a right to know
about my own relations?'

' Ohj bairn ! bairn ! if it were anything you'd
like to hear; but why should you know what is
all sad and gloomful ? No, no, go to your balls,
and think of your fine dresses and gran' partners,
though, for the matter of that, it is but vanity
of vanities '

' Oh, if you're going to quote Ecclesiastes, I
shall go I' said Rose, pouting. ' I wish that
book wasnH in the Bible !' I'm sure such
an old grumbler ought to have been in the
Apocrypha.^

Elspeth shook her head, and muttered some-
thing about judgment and trouble. Rose began
to be doubly curious.

Trouble, sadness, a mystery — perhaps a

182 WE TWO.

tragedy ! Rose had read of such things in
books ; were there such things actually in the
family, and she had never known of them ? A
few hours ago and she had been unable to
think of anything but her first ball, her new
dress, her flowers ; but she was seized now with
the most intense desire to fathom this mystery.
That it bid fair to be a sad mystery only made
her more eager and curious. She was so
young, so ignorant, there was still a halo of
romance about those unknown things, trouble
and sadness.

' Elspeth, you treat me like a child !' she ex-
claimed; 'it's really too bad of you.'

' Maybe you're rights bairn,^ said the old
nurse; 'but it's no doing of mine. But look
here, Miss Rose, you be persuaded by me, go
straight to your mamma and ask her yourself.
Maybe there is a doubt whether you oughtn't
to know, but there is no doubt that I mustn't
tell you.'

Rose hesitated, but presently her curiosity
overpowereel her reluctance.

Mrs. Fane-Smith, or, as she had been called

ROSE. 183

in her maiden days. Isabel RaeburD, was re-
markably like her daughter in so far as features
and colouring were concerned, but she was ex-
ceedingly unlike her in character, for whereas
Rose was vain and self-confident, and had a
decided will of her own, her mother was diffi-
dent and exaggeratedly humble. She was a
kind-hearted and a good woman, but she was
in danger of losing almost all the real blessed-
ness of life by perpetually harassing herself
with the question, ' What will people say V

She looked up apprehensively as her daughter
came into the room. Rose felt sure she had
been crying, her curiosity was still further
stimulated, and with all the persuasiveness at
her command, she urged her mother to tell her
the meaning of the mysterious paragraph.

' I am sorry you have asked me,' said Mrs.
Fane-Smith, 'but, perhaps, since you are no
longer a child you had better know. It is a
sad story, however. Rose, and I should not have
chosen to tell it you to-day of all days.^

'But I want to hear, mamma,' said Rose,
decidedly. ' Please begin. Who is this Mr.
Raeburn?'

184 WE TWO.

' He is my brother,' said Mrs. Fane-Smitb,
^vith a little quiver in her voice.

' Your brother ! My uncle I' cried Rose, in
amazement.

'Luke was the eldest of us,' said Mrs. Fane-
Smith, *then came Jean, and I was the youngest
of all, at least of those who lived.'

^ Then 1 have an aunt, too, an aunt Jean !'
exclaimed Rose.

' You shall hear the whole stor}^' replied her
mother. She thought for a minute, then in
rather a low voice she began. ' Luke and Jean
were always the clever ones, Luke especially ;
your grandfather had set his heart on his being
a clergyman, and you can fancy the grief it was
to us when he threw up the whole idea, and
declared that he could never take orders. He
was only nineteen when he renounced religion
altogether; he and my father had a great
dispute, and the end of it was that Luke w^as
sent away from home, and T have never seen
him since. He has become a very notorious
infidel lecturer. Jean was very much unsettled
by his change of views, and I believe her real

ROSE. 185

reason for marrjii]^' old Mr. Craigie was that
she had made him promise to let her see Luke
again. She married young and settled down in
London, and when, in a few years, her husband
died, she too renounced Christianity.'

To tell the truth, Rose w^as not deeply inter-
ested in the story, it fell a little flat after her
expectations of a tragedy. It had, moreover, a
sort of missionary flavour, and she had till the
last few months lived in India, and had grown
heartily tired of the details of mission-work, in
which both her father and mother had been in-
terested. Conversions, relapses, heathenism,
belief and unbelief were words which had
sounded so often in her ears that now they bored
her; as they were the merest w^ords to her it
could hardly be otherwise. But Rose's best
point was her loyalty to her own family, she
bad the ' clan ' feeling very strongly, and she
could not understand how her mother could
have allowed such a complete estrangement to
grow up between her and her nearest relations.

'Mamma,' she said, quickly, 'I should have
gone to see Uncle Luke if I had been you.'

186 WE TWO.

' It is impossible, dear,' replied Mrs. Fane-
Smith. ' Yonr father would not allow it for
one thing, and then only think what people
would say ! This is partly my reason for
telling you, Rose ; I want to put you upon
your guard. We heard little or nothing of
your uncle when we were in India, but you will
find it very different here. He is one of the
most notorious men in England ; you must
never mention his name, never allude to him,
do you understand me?'

' Is he then so wicked V

' My dear, consider what his teaching is, that
is sufficient ; T would not for the whole world
allow our Greyshot friends to guess that we are
connected with him in any way. It might' ruin
all your prospects in life.'

* Mamma,' said Rose, ' I don't think Mr.
Raeburn will injure my prospects — of course
you mean prospects of marrying. If a man
didn't care enough for me to take me whether I
am the niece of the worst man in England or
not, do you think I would accept him V

There was an angry ring in her voice as she

ROSE. 1.87

spoke, her little saucy mouth looked almost
grand. After a moment's pause she added,
more quietly, but with all the force of the true
woman's heart which lay hidden beneath her
silliness and frivolity, ' Besides^ mamma, is it
quite honest V

' We are not bound to publish our family
history to the world, Rose. If anyone asked
me, of course I should tell the truth; if there
was any way of helping my brother or his child,
I would gladly serve them_, even though the
world would look coldly on me for doing so ; but
wliile they remain atheists how is it possible V

' Then he has a child V

' One only, I believe, a girl of about your own
age.'

' Oh, mamma, how I should Hke to know
her!' .

' My dear Rose, how can you speak of such a
thing ! You don't realise that she is an atheist^
has not even been baptised, poor little thing.'

* But she is my cousin^ and she is a girl just
like me,' said Rose. ' I should like to know her
very ranch. I wonder whether she has come

188 WE TWO.

out yet. I wonder how she enjo^^ed her first
ball.'

' My dear ! they are not in society.'

' How dull ! what does she do all day, I
wonder?'

^I cannot tell, and I wish you would not talk
about her, Rose ; I should not wish you even to
think about her, except, indeed, to mention her
in your prayers.'

' Oh, I'd much rather have her here to stay,'
said Rose, with a little mischievous gleam in
her eyes.

' Rose !'

' Why, mamma, if she were a black un-
believer you would be delighted to have her, it
is only because she is white that you won't
have anything to do with her. You would
have been as pleased as possible if I had
made friends with any of the ladies in the
Zenanas.'

Mrs. Fane-Smith looked uncomfortable, and
murmured that that was a very different ques-
tion. Rose, seeing her advantage, made haste
to follow it up.

ROSE. 189

'At any rate, mamma, you will write to Un-
cle Luke now that he is in trouble, and yon'll
let me send a note to his daughter? Only
think, mamma, she has lost her mother so sud-
denly I just think how v/retched she must be !
Oh, mamma dear, I can't think how she can
bear it I' and Rose threw her arms round her
mother's neck. ' I should die too if you were to
die ! I'm sure I should !'

Rose was very persuasive, Mrs. Fane-Smith's
motherly heart was touched ; she sat down
there and then^ and for the first time since the
summer day when Luke Raeburn had been
turned out of his father's house, she wrote to
her brother. Rose in the meantime had taken
a piece of paper from her mother's writing-
desk, and with a fat volume of sermons by way
of a desk, was scribbling away as fast as she
could. This was her letter :

' My dear Cousin,

' I don't know your name, and have
only just heard anything about you, and the
first thing I heard was that you were in dread-

190 WE TWO.

ful trouble. I only write to send you my love
•and to say how very sony I am for yon.
AYe only came to England in the antumn. I
like it very much. I am going to my first ball
to-night, and expect to enjoy it immensely.

My dress is to be white tarla Oh, dear I

how horrid of me to be writing like this to
you. Please forgive me. I don't like to be so
happy when you are unhappy ; but, you see^ I
have only just heard of you, so it is a little
difficult. With love,
' I remain,

' Your affectionate cousin,

' Rose Fane- Smith.'

That evening, while Erica, with eyes dim
with grief and w^eariness, was poring over the
books in her father's study, Rose was being-
initiated into all the delights of the ball-room.
She was in her glory. Everything was new to
her ; she enjoyed dancing, she knew that she
looked pretty, knew that her dress was charm-
ing, knew that she was much admired, and of
course she liked it all. But the chaperons

ROSE. 191

shook theii' beads ; it was Avhispered that Miss
Fane-Smith was a terrible flirt, she had danced
no less than seven dances with Captain Go-
ligbtlj. If her mother erred by thinking too
much of what people said, perhaps Rose erred
in exactly the opposite way ; at any rate, she
managed to call down upon her silly but inno-
cent little head an immense amount of blame
from the mothers and elderly ladies.

' A glorious moonlight night,' said Captain
Golightly. ' What do you say. Miss Fane-
Smith? Shall we take a turn in the garden?
Or are you afraid of the cold V

* Afraid ! oh, dear, no,^ said Rose, ' it is the
very thing I should enjoy ; I suppose I must get
my shawl, though ; it is upstairs.^

They were in the vestibule.

' Have my ulster,' said Captain Golightly.
* Here it is, just handy, and it will keep you
much warmer.'

Rose laughed and blushed, and allowed her-
self to be put into her partner's coat', rather to
the detriment of her billowy tarlatan. x\fter a
while they came back again from the dim gar-

192 WE TWO.

den to the brightly-lighted vestibule, and as
ill-luck would have it, chanced to encounter a
stream of people going into the supper-room.
Everyone stared at the apparition of Miss Fane-
Smith in Captain Gohghtly's coat. With some
difficulty she struggled out of it, and with
very hot cheeks sought shelter in the ball-
room.

' How dreadfully they looked ! Do you think
it was wrong of me?' she half- whispered to her
partner.

' Oh, dear, no ! sensible, and plucky, and
ever\^thing delightful ! You are much too
charming to be bound down to silly conven-
tionalities. Come, let us have this dance ! I'm
sure you are engaged to some one in the supper-
room who can't deserve such a delightful part-
ner. Let us have this trois temps, and hurl defi-
ance at the Greyshot chaperons.'

Rose laughed, and allowed herself to be
borne oiF. She had been excited before,
now she was doubly excited, and Cap-
tain Golightly had the most delicious step
imaginable.

193

CHAPTER X.

HARD AT WORK.

Longing is God's fresli heavenward will

With our poor earthward striving ;
We quench it that we may be still

Content with merely living ;
But, would we learn that heart's full scope

Which we are hourly wronging,
Our lives must climb from hope to hope

And realise our longing.

J. R. Lowell.

Perhaps it was only natural that there should
be that winter a good deal of communication
between the secularist's house in Guilford
Terrace and the clergyman's house in Guilford
Square. From the first Raeburn had taken a
great fancy to Charles Osmond, and now that
Brian had become so closely connected with
VOL. I. 0

194 WE TWO.

the memory of their sudden bereavement, and
had made himself almost one of them by his
silent, unobtrusive sympathy, and by his num-
berless acts of delicate considerateness, a tie
was necessarily formed which promised to
deepen into one of those close friendships
that sometimes exist between two entire
families.

It was a bleak, chilly afternoon in March,
when Charles Osmond, returning from a long
round of parish work, thought he would look
in for a few minutes at the Raeburns' ; he had
a proposal to make to Erica, some fresh work
which he thought might interest her. He rang
the bell at the now familiar door and was ad-
mitted ; it carried him back to the day when he
had first called there and had been shown into
the fire-lit room, with the l30ok-lined walls, and
the pretty little girl curled up on the rug, with
her cat and her toasting-fork. Time had
brought many changes since then. This even-
ing he was again shown into the study, but
this time the gas was lighted and there was
no little girl upon the hearth-rug. Erica was

HARD AT ^YORK. 195

sitting at her desk hard at work. Her face
lighted up at the sight of her visitor.

' Everyone is out except me,' she said, more
brightly than he had heard her speak since her
return. ' Did you really come to see me ? How
good of you.'

' But you are busy,' said Charles Osmond,
glancing at the papers on her desk. ' Press-
work V

' Yes^ my first article,' said Erica, 'it is just
finished, but if you'll excuse me for one minute,
I ought to correct it, the office boy will call for
it directly.'

^ Don't hurry ; I will wait and get warm in
the meantime,' said Charles Osmond, establishing
himself by the fire.

There was a silence broken only by the
sound of Erica's pen as she crossed out a word
or a line. Charles Osmond watched her and
mused. This beautiful girl, whose develop-
ment he could trace now for more than two
years back, what would she grow into ?
Already she was writing in the Idol-Breaker.

He regretted it. Yet it was obviously the

0 2

196 WE TWO.

most natural employment for her. He looked
at her ever-changing face, she was absorbed in
her work, her expression varying with the sen-
tences she read ; now there was a look of
triumphant happiness as she came to something
which made her heart beat quickly, again a
shade of dissatisfaction at the consciousness of
her inability to express what was in her mind.
He could not help thinking that it was one of
the noblest faces he had ever seen^ and now
that the eyes were downcast it was not so
terribly sad ; there was moreover for the first
time since her mother's death a faint tinge of
colour in her cheeks. Before five minutes could
have passed, the bell rang again.

' That is my boy,' she exclaimed, and, hastily
blotting her sheets, she rolled them up_, gave
them to the servant^ closed her desk, and,
crossing the room, knelt down in front of the
fire to warm her hands, which were stiff and
chilly.

'How rude I have been to you,' she said,
smiling a little, * I always have been rude to
you, since the very first time we met.'

HARD AT Y/ORK. 197

' We were always frank with each other,'
said Charles Osmond ; ' I remember you gave me
your opinion as to bigots and Christians in the
most delightfully open way. So you have been
writing your first article?'

' Yes,' and she stretched herself as though she
were rather tired and cramped. ^ I have had a
delicious afternoon. Yesterday I was in despair
about it, but to-day it just came — I wrote it
straight off.'

* And you are satisfied with it V

' Satisfied ? oh, no ! Is anybody ever satis-
fied ? By the time it is in print I shall want to
alter every sixth line. Still, I daresay it will
say a little of what I want said.'

'Oh, you do want something saidf

' Of course !' she replied, a little indignantly.
■* If not, how could I write.'

' I quite agree with you,' said Charles Os-
ino?id, ' and you mean to take this up as your
vocation V

' If I am thought worthy,' said Erica, colour-
ing a little.

' I see you have high ideas of the art,' said

198 WE TWO.

Charles Osmond; 'and wbat is your reason for
taking it up V

' First of all, though it sounds rather illogi-
cal/ said Erica, 'I write because I must, there is
something in me which will have its say. Then,
too, it is part of our creed that everyone should
do all in his power to help on the cause, and
of course, if only for my father's sake, it would
be my greatest pleasure. Then, last of all, I
write because I must earn my living.'

'Good reasons all,' said Charles Osmond.
' But I don't feel sure that you won't regret
having written when you look back several
years hence.'

' Oh ! I daresay it will all seem crude and
ridiculous then, but one must make a begin-
ning,' said Erica.

* And are you sure you have thought out
these great questions so thoroughly and fairly
that you are capable of teaching others about
themr

' Ah ! now I see what you mean !' exclaimed
Erica, 'you think I write in defence of atheism,
or as an attacker of Christianity. I do nothing

HARD AT WORK. , 199

of the kind, father would not allow me to, he
would not think me old enough. Oh ! no, I am
only to write the lighter articles which are
needed every now and then. To-day I had a
delightful subject — " Heroes — what are they 1" '

' Well, and what is your definition of a hero^
I wonder, what are the qualities you think ab-
solutely necessary to make one V

* I think I have only tv/o absolutely necessary
ones,' said Erica, ' but my heroes must have
these two, they must have brains and good-
ness.'

' A tolerably sweeping definition,' said
Charles Osmond, laughing, * almost equal to a
friend of mine who wanted a wife, and said
there were only two things he would stipulate
for — £1500 a year, and an angel! But it
brings us to another definition, you see. We
shall agree as to the brains, but how about
goodness V What is your definition of that
very wide, not to say vague, term V

Erica looked puzzled.

' I don't think I can define it,' she said, ' but
one knows it when one sees it.'

200 WE TWO.

' Do 3'ou mean by it, unselfishness, courage,
truthfulness or any other virtue?'

' Oh ! it isn't any one virtue, or even a parcel
of virtues, it will not go into words.'

' It is then the nearest approach to some
perfect ideal which is in your mind?'

'I suppose it is,' she said, slowly.

' How did that ideal come into your mind V

' I don't know, T suppose I got it b}^ inherit-
ance.'

* From the original moneron V

' You are laughing at me. I don't know how
of course, but I have it, which, as far as I can
see, is all that matters.'

' I am not sure of that,' said Charles Osmond.
^The explanation of that ideal of goodness
which more or less clearly exists in all our
minds, seems to me to rest onl}^ in the convic-
tion that all are children of one perfect Father.
And I can give you our definition of goodness
without hesitation, it is summed up for us in
one word — " Christlikeness.'

' I cannot see it, it seems to me all exagger-
ated,' said Erica, ' 1 believe it is only because

HARD AT WORK. 201

people are educated to believe and predisposed
to think it all good and perfect that there are
so many Christians. Yon may say it is we who
are prejudiced. If we are, I'm sure you Chris-
tians have done enough to make us so! How
could I, for instance, be anything but an athe-
ist ? Shall I tell you the very first thing I can
remember.'

Her eyes were flashing with indignant
light.

'I was a little tiny child — only four years
old — but there are some scenes one never
forgets. I can see it all as plainly as possible,
the room in a hotel, the very doll I was play-
ing with. There was a great noise in the
street, trampling, hissing, hooting. I ran to
the window^ an immense crowed was coming-
nearer and nearer, the street was black with
the throng, they were all shouting and yelling
— '^Down with the infidel !" "Kill the atheist!"
Then I saw my father, he was there strong and
fearless, one man against a thousand ! I tell
you I saw him, I can see him now, fighting his
way on single-handed, not one creature brave

202 WE TWO.

enough to stand up for him ! I saw him push'
ed, struck^ spit upon, stoned. At last a great
brick struck him on the head. I think I must
have been too sick or too angry to see any
more after that. The next thing I remember
is lying on the floor sobbing, and hearing father
come into the room and say, " Why little sou
Eric, did you think they'd killed me f And
he picked me up and let me sit on his knee, but
there was blood on his face, and as he kissed
me it dropped upon my forehead. I tell you,
you Christians baptized me into atheism in my
own father's blood ! They were Christians
who stoned him, champions of religion, and they
Avere egged on by the clergy ! Did I not hear
it all then in my babyhood V And it is true ! it
is all fact ! ask anybody you like ! I have not
exaggerated !'

' My dear child, I know you have not,' said
Charles Osmond, putting his strong hand upon
hers. He could feel that she was all trembling
with indignation. Was it to be wondered at ?
' I remember those riots perfectly well,' he con-
tinued. ' I think I felt and feel as indignant

HARD AT WORK. 203

about them as yourself. A fearful mistake was
made — Mr. Raeburn was shamefully treated.
But Erica,' — it was the first time he had called
her by her name, — ' you who pride yourself
upon fairness, you who make justice your
watchword, must be careful not to let the
wrong-doing of a few Christians prejudice you
against Christianity. You say that we are
all predisposed to accept Christ, but candidly
you must allow I think that you are trebly
prejudiced against the very name of Christian,
A Christian almost inevitably means to you
only one of your father's mistaken persecu-
tors.'

' Yes, you are so much of an exception that
I always forget you are one,^ said Erica, smiling
a little. ' Yet you are not like one of us quite
— 3^ou somehow stand alone, you are unlike
anyone I ever met; you and Thekla Sonnen-
thal and your son make to me a sort of new
variety.'

Charles Osmond laughed_, and changed the
subject.

' You are busy with your examination work^

204 WE TWO.

I suppose?' And the question led to a long talk
about books and lectures.

In truth, Erica had plunged into work of all
kinds, not merely from love of it, but because
she felt the absolute need of fresh interests, the
great danger of dwelling unduly on her sorrow\
Then, too, she had just grasped a new idea, an
idea at once noble and inspiriting. Hitherto
she had thought of a happy future for herself,
of a home free from troubles and harassing
cares. That was all over now, her golden
dream had come to an end, and ' Hope dead
lives nevermore.' The life she had pictured to
herself could never be, but her nature was too
strong to be crushed by the sorrow ; physically
the shock had w^eakened her far more than any-
one knew, but, mentally, it had been a won-
derful stimulant. She rose above herself, above
her trouble, and life began to mean something
broader and deeper than before.

Hitherto her great desire had been to be free
from care, and to be happy ; now the one im-
portant thing seemed not so much to be happy,
as to know. To learn herself, and to help

HARD AT WORK. 205

others to learn^ became her chief object, and,
with all the devotion of an earnest, high-souled
nature, she set herself to act out these convic-
tions. She read hard^ attended lectures, and
twice a week taught in the night school attach-
ed to the Institute.

Charles Osmond could not help smiling as
she described her days to him. She still re-
tained something of the childishness of an Un-
dine, and as they talked she had taken up her
old position on the hearthrug, and Friskarina
had crept on to her knee. Here, undoubtedly,
was one whom ignorant people would stigmatise
as ' blue ' or as a ^femme savante ;' they would
of course be quite wrong and inexpressibly
foolish to use such terms, and yet there was,
perhaps, something a little incongruous in the
two sides, as it were, of Erica's nature^ the keen
intellect and the child-like devotion, the great
love of learning and the intense love of fun and
humour. Charles Osmond had only once in all
his long years of experience met with a character
which interested him so much.

' After all,' he said, when they had talked for

206 WE TWO.

some timej ' I have never told you that I came
on a begging errand, and I half fear that you
"svill be too busy to undertake any more work.'

Erica's face brightened at the word ; was not
work what she lived for ?

' Oh ! I am not too busy for anything I' she
exclaimed. 'I shall quote Marcus Aurelius to
you if you say I haven't time ! What sort of
work?'

' Only, when you can, to come in to us in the
afternoon and read a little to my mother. Do
you think you could? Her eyes are failing, and
Brian and I are hard at work all day ; I am
afraid she is very dull.'

' I should like to come very much,' said Erica,
really pleased at the suggestion. ^What sort
of books would Mrs. Osmond like?'

' Oh, anything ! history, travels, science, or
even novels, if you are not above reading them!'

' I ? of course not,' said Erica^ laughing.
* Don't you think we enjoy them as much as
other people? when there is time to read them,
at least, which isn't often.'

Charles Osmond laughed.

HARD AT WORK. 207

*Very well, then, you have a wide field.
From Carlyle to Miss Bird, and from Ernst
Haeckel to Charles Reade. I should make them
into a big sandwich if I were }'ou.'

He said good-bye, and left Erica still on the
hearth-rng, her face brighter than it had been
for months.

*I like that man,' she said to herself. 'He's
honest and thorough, and good all through.
Yet how in the Avorld does he make himself
believe in his creed ! Goodness, Christlikeness.
He looked so grand, too, as he said that. It is
■wonderful w^hat a personal sort of devotion
those three have for their ideal.''

She wandered away to recollections of Thekia
Sonnenthal, and that carried her back to the
time of their last parting, and the recollection
of her sorrow. All at once the loneliness of the
present was borne in upon her overwhelmingly;
she looked round the little room, the Ilkley
couch was pushed away into a corner, there was
a pile of newspapers upon it. A great sob
escaped her. For a minute she pressed her
hands tightly together over her eyes, then she

208 WE TWO.

hurriedly opened a book on ^ Electricity,' and
began to read as if for her life.

She was roused in about an hour's time by a
laughing exclamation. She started, and, look-
ing up, saw her cousin Tom.

' Talk about absorption, and brown studies !'
he cried, ' why, you beat everything I ever saw.
I've been looking at you for at least three
minutes.'

Tom was now about nineteen ; he had inher-
ited the auburn colouring of the Raeburns, but
otherwise he was said to be much more like
the Craigies. He was nice-looking, but some-
what freckled, and though he was tall and
strongly built, he somehow betrayed that he
had led a sedentary life and looked, in fact, as
if he wanted a training in gymnastics. For
the rest he was shrewd, business-like, good-
natured, aud at present very conceited. He
had been Erica's friend and playfellow as long
as she could remember, they were brother
and sister in all but the name, for they had
lived within a stone's throw of each other all
their lives, and now shared the same house.

HARD AT WORK. 20^

' I never beard you come in,' she said, smiling
a little. ' You must have been very quiet.'

' I don't believe you'd hear a salute fired in
the next room if you were reading, you little
bookworm ! But look here ! I've got a parody
on the chieftain that'll make you cry with
laughing. You remember the smashed win-
dows at the meeting at Rilchester last week V

Erica remembered well enough, she had
felt sore and angry about it, and the com-
ments in the newspapers had not been conso-
latory. She had learnt to dread even th&
comic papers, but there was nothing spiteful in
the one which Tom produced that evening. It
w^as headed :

Scotch Song.
Tune — ^^Twas witliin a mile of Edinhoro' town.''

' 'Twas within a hall of Rilchester town,
In the bleak spring time of the year,
Luke Raeburn gave a lecture on the soul of man.
And found that it cost him dear.
Windows all were smashed that day,
They said, " The atheist can pay,"
But Scottish Raeburn frowning cried,
" Na, na, it winna do,
I canna, canna, winna, winna, munna pay for you." '

VOL. I. P

210 WE TWO.

The parody ran on through the three verses
of the song, the conclusion was really witty,
and there was no sting in it. Erica laughed
over it as she had not laughed for weeks.
Tom, who had been trying unsuccessfully to
cheer her ever since her return, was quite re-
lieved.

' I believe the sixpence a day style suits you,'
he said, * but, I say, isn't anything coming up ?
I'm as hungry as a hunter.'

Their elders being away for a few days, Tom
and Erica were amusing themselves by trying
to live on the rather strange diet of the man
who published his plan for living at the small-
est possible cost. They were already begin-
ning to be rather weary ^^ porridge, pea-soup,
and lentils. This evening ' jsa-soup was in the
ascendant, and Erica, tired with a long after-
noon's work, felt as if she could almost as soon
have eaten Thames mud.'

* Dear me,' she said, * it never struck me, this
is our Lenten penance ! Now_, wouldn't anyone
looking-in fancy we were poor Romanists with-
out an indulgence V

HARD AT WORK. 211

' Certainly without any self-indulgence,' said
Tom, who never lost an opportunity of making
a bad pun.

'It would be a great indulgence to stop
eating,' said Erica, sighing over the soup yet
to be swallowed.

' Do you think it is more inspiriting to fast
in order to save one's soul, than it is to pay
the chieftain's debts? I wish I could honestly
say, like the little French girl in her confession,
*' J^ii trop mange." '

Tom dearly loved that story, he was exceed-
ingly fond of getting choice little anecdotes
from various religious newspapers, especially
those which dealt in much abuse of the Church
of Rome, and ' itailed them con amove.

Erica listened to 'cral to-night and laughed a
good deal over them.

*■ I wonder, though, they don't see how they
play into our hands by putting in these things,'
she said, after Tom had given her a description
of some ludicrous attack made by a ritualist on
an evangelical. I should have thought they
would have tried to agree whenever they could,

p2

212 WE TWO.

instead of which they seem almost as spiteful
to each other as they are to us.'

' They'd know better if they'd more than a
grain of sense between them,' said Tom, sweep-
ingly, 'but they haven't; and as they're always
playing battledore and shuttlecock with that, it
isn't much good to either. Of course they play
into our hands ! I believe the spiteful ultra-
high paper, and the spiteful ultra-low paper
do more to promote atheism than the Idol-
Breaker itself.'

' How dreadful it must be for rnen like Mr.
Osmond, who see all round, and yet can't stop
what they must think the mischief. Mr. Os-
mond has been here this afternoon.'

' Ah, now, he's a stunning fellow, if you like,^
said Tom. 'He's not one of the pig-headed
narrow-minded set. How he comes to be a par-
son I can't make out.'

' Well, you see, from their point of view it is
the best thing to be, I mean he gets plenty of
scope for work. I expect he feels as much
obliged to speak and teach as father does.'

' Pity he's not on our side,' said Tom, ' they

HARD AT ^YORK. 213

say he's a first-rate speaker. But I'm afraid
he is perfectly crazy on that point, he'll never
come over.'

'I don't think we've a right to put the whole
of his religiousness down to a mania,' said
Erica. 'Besides, he is not the sort of man to
be even a little mad^ there's nothing the least
fanatical about him.'

* Call it delusion, if you like it better. What's
in a name? The thing remains the same! A
man can't believe what is utterly against reason
without becoming, as far as that particular belief
is concerned, unreasonable, beyond the pale of
reason, therefore debided, therefore mad.'

Erica looked perplexed ; she did not think
Tom's logic altogether good, but she could not
correct it. There was, however, a want of
generosity about the assertion which instantly
appealed to her fine sense of honour.

' I can't argue it out,' she said at last, ' but
it doesn't seem to me fair to put down what we
can't understand in other people to madness ; it
never seemed to me quite fair for Festus to
accuse Paul of madness when he really had

214 WE TWO.

made a splendid defence, and it doesn't seem
fair that you should accuse Mr. Osmond of being
mad.'

' Only on that one point,' said Tom. * Just a
little touched, you know. How else can you
account for a man like that believing what he
professes to believe.'

' I don't know,' said Erica, relapsing into
perplexed silence.

'Besides,' continued Tom, 'you cry out be-
cause I say they must be just a little touched,
but they accuse us of something far worse than
madness_, they accuse us of absolute wicked-
ness.'

' Not all of them,'' said Erica.

' The greater part, ' said Tom. ^ How often
do you think the chieftain meets with really
fair treatment from his antagonists V

Erica had nothing to say to this. The harsh-
ness and intolerance which her father had con-
stantly to encounter was the great grief of her
life, the perpetual source of indignation, her
strongest argument against Christianity.

' Have you much to do to-night V she asked,.

HARD AT WORK. 215

not anxious to stir up afresh the revolt against
the world's injustice which the merest touch
w^ould set working within her. 'I was thinking
that, if there was time to spare, we might go
to see the Professor ; he has promised to show
me some experiments.'

' Electricity f Tom pricked up his ears.
' Not half a bad idea. If you'll help me, we
can polish off the letters in an hour or so, and
be free by eight o^clock.^

They set to work, and between them disposed
of the correspondence.

It was a great relief to Erica after her long
day's work to be out in the cool evening air.
The night was fine but very windy, indeed the
sudden gusts at the street corners made her
glad to take Tom's arm. Once, as they
rather slackened their speed, half-baffled by
the storm, a sentence from a passer-by fell on
their ears. The speaker looked like a country-
man.

' Give me a good gas-burner with pipes and a
meter that a honest man can understand ! Now
this 'ere elective hght I say it's not canny;

216 WE TWO.

I've no belief in things o' that kind, it won't

never '

The rest of the speech died away in the
distance. Tom and Erica laughed, but the
incident set Erica thinking. Here was a man
who would not believe what he could not
understand, who wanted '^ pipes and a meter,'
and for want of comprehensible outward signs
pooh-poohed the great new discovery.

' Tom,' she said^ slowly, and with the manner
of one who makes a very unpleasant sugges-
tion, reluctantly putting forward an unwelcome
thought, ' suppose if, after all, we are like that
man, and reject a grand discovery because we
don't know and are too ignorant to understand !
Tom, just suppose if, after all, Christianity
should be true and we in the wrong!'

' Just suppose if, after all, the earth should be
a flat plain with the sun moving round it !'
replied Tom, scornfully.

They were walking down the Strand ; he did
not speak for some minutes, in fact he was
looking at the people who passed by them.
For the first time in his life a great contrast

HARD AT WORK. 217

struck him. Disreputable vulgarity, wickedness,
and vice stared him in the face, then involun-
tarily he turned to Erica and looked down at
her scrutinizingly as he had never looked before.
She was evidently rapt in thought^ but it was
not the intellect in her face which he thought of
just then, though it was ever noticeable, nor
was it the actual beauty of feature which struck
him, it was rather an undefined consciousness
that here was a purity which was adorable.
From that moment he became no longer a boy,
but a man with a high standard of womanhood.
Instantly he thought with regret of his scornful
little speech, — it was contemptible !

' I beg your pardon,' he said, abruptly, as if she
had been following his whole train of thought.
' Of course one is bound to study the question
fairly ; but we have done that, and all that
remains for us is to live as usefully as we
can and as creditably to the cause as may
be.'

They had turned down one of the dingy
little streets leading to the river, and now
stood outside Professor Gosse's door. Erica

218 WE TWO.

did not reply. It was true she had heard
arguments for and against Christianity all her
life, but had she ever studied it with strict im-
partiality ? Had she not always been strongly
biassed in favour of Secularism '.^ Had not Mr.
Osmond gone unpleasantly near the mark
when he warned her against being prejudiced
by the wrong doing of a few modern Christians
against Christianity itself! She was coming
now for special instruction in science from one
who was best calculated to teach ; she would
not have dreamt of asking instruction from one
who was a disbeliever in science. Would the
same apply in matters of religious belief? Was
she bound actually to ask instruction from
Charles Osmond, for instance, even though she
believed that he taught error, — harmful error ?
Yet who was to be the judge of what was
error, except by perfectly fair consideration of
both sides of the case. Had she been fair?
AVhat was perfect fairness ?

But people must go on living, and must
speak and act even though their minds are in a
chaos of doubts and questionings. They had

HARD AT WORK. 219

reached Professor Gosse's study, or as he him-
self called it, his workshop, and Erica turned
with relief to the verifiable results of scientific
inquiry.

220

CHAPTER XI,

THE WHEELS RUN DOWN.

Great grace, as saith Sir Thomas More,
To him must needs be given,
Who heareth heresy, and leaves
The heretic to Heaven.

Whittier.

The clock in a Deighbouring church tower was
just striking five on a warm afternoon in June.
The pillar-box stood at the corner of Guilford
Square nearest the church, and on this particu-
lar afternoon there chanced to be several people
running at the last moment to post their
letters. Among others were Brian and Erica.
Brian, with a great bundle of parish notices,
had just reached the box when running down
the other side of the square at full speed he

THE WHEELS RUN DOWN. 221

saw his Undine carrying a bag full of letters.
He had not met her for some weeks, for it hap-
pened to have been a busy time with him, and_,
though she had been very good in coming to
read to old Mrs. Osmond, he had always just
missed her.

' This is a funny meeting-place/ she exclaim-
ed, rather breathlessly. ' It never struck me
before what a truly national institution the
Post Office is, — a place where people of all
creeds and opinions can meet together, and are
actually treated alike !'

Brian smiled.

' You have been very busy,'' he said, glancing
at the innumerable envelopes, which she was
dropping as fast as might be into the narrow
receptacle. He could see that they w^ere direct-
ed in her small, clear, delicate hand-writing.

' And you, too,^ she said, looking at his dimin-
ished bundle. ^Mine are Secularist circulars,
and yours, I suppose, are the other kind of
thing, but you see the same pillar eats them up
quite contentedly. The Post Office is beauti-
fully national, it sets a good example.''

222 WE TWO.

She spoke lightly, but there was a peculiar
tone in her voice which betrayed great weari-
ness. It made Brian look at her more atten-
tively than he had yet done — less from a
lover^s point of view, more from a doctor's.
She was very pale. Though the running had
brought a faint colour to her cheeks, her
lips were white, her forehead almost deathly.
He knew that she had never really been well
since her mother's death, but the change
wrought within the last three weeks dismayed
him ; she was the mere shadow of her former
self.

' This hot weather is trying you,' he said.

* Something is/ she replied. ^ Work, or
weather, or worry, or the three combined.'

'Come ill and see my father/ said Brian, 'and
be idle for a little time ; you will be writing
more circulars if you go home.'

' No, they are all done, and my examination
is over, and there is nothing special going on
just now ; I think that is why I feel so like
breaking down.'

After a little more persuasion, she consented

THE WHEELS RUN DOWN. 223

to go ill and see Mr. Osmond. The house
always had a peculiarly restful feeling, and the
mere thought of rest was a relief to her ; she
would have liked the wheels of life to stop for
a little while, and there w^as rest in the mere
change of atmosphere. On the doorstep Brian
encountered a patient, much to'his vexation ; so
he could only take Erica into the study, and go
in search of his father. He lingered, however,
just to tell him of his fears.

' She looks perfectly worn out ; you must
find out what is wrong, father, and make her
promise to see some one.'

His tone betrayed such anxiety that his father
w^ould not smile, although he w^as secretly
amused o,t the task deputed to him. However,
clergyman as he was, he had a good deal of the
doctor about him, and he had seen so much of
sickness and disease, during his long years of
hard work among the poor, that he was after
all about as ready an observer and as good a
judge as Brian could have selected.

Erica leaning back in the great easy-chair,
which had been moved into summer quarters

224 WE TWO.

beside the window, heard the slow soft step she
had learned to know so wellj and before she
had time to get up, found her hand in Charles
Osmond's strong clasp.

' How comfortable your chair is,' she said,
smiling; ' I believe I was nearly asleep.'

He looked at her attentively, but without
appearing to study her face in any way. She
was very pale, and there was an indefinable
look of pain in her eyes.

' Any news of the examination T he asked,
sitting dov^^n opposite her.

'No, it is too soon yet/ she replied. ' I
thought I should have felt so anxious about it ;
but do you know, now that it is over^ I can't
make myself care a bit. If I have failed alto-
gether, I don't believe I shall mind very much.'

^ Too tired to care for anything V

' Yes, I seem to have come to the end. T
wish I were a watch, and could run down and
rest for a few days and be wound up again.'

He smiled. ' What have you been doing with
yourself to get so tired?'

' Oh, nothing particular; it has been rather a

THE WHEELS RUN DOWN. 225

long day. Let me see ! In the morning there
were two delegates from Rilchester w^ho had to be
kept in a good temper till my father was ready
for them ; then there was father's bag to be pack-
ed, and a rush to get him off in time for the
morning express to Longstaff. Then I went to
a lecture at South Kensington, and then by train
to Aldersgate Street to see Hazeldine's wife,
who is unconscionable enough to live at the top
of one of the model lodging-houses. Then she
told me of another of our people whose child is
ill, and they lived in another row of Compton
Buildings up a hundred more steps, which left
my back nearly broken. And the poor little
child was fearfully ill, and it is so dreadful to see
pain you can do nothing for ; it has made me
feel wretched ever since. Then, — let me think
— oh, I got home and found Aunt Jean with a
heap of circulars to get off, and there was a
great rush to get them ready by post time.'

She paused, Charles Osmond withdrew his
eyes from the careful scrutiny of her face and
noticed the position she had taken up in his chair.
She was leaning back, but with her arms rest-

VOL. I. Q

226 WE TWO.

iDg on the arms of the chair ; not merely stretch-
eel out upon them, but rather as if she used them
for support. His eyes wandered back again to
her face. After a short silence, he spoke.

*You have been feeHng very tired lately,
you have had unaccountable pains flying about
all over you, but specially your back has felt,
as you just said, somewhat " broken." You
have generally noticed this when you have
been walking or bending over your desk writ-
ing for the Idol-Breaher'

She laughed.

' Now, please don^t turn into a clairvoyant ; I
shall begin to think you uncanny; and, besides,
it would be an argument for Tom when we
quarrel about you.'

* Then my surmises are true V

' Substitute first person singular for second
plural, and it might have come from my own
lips,' said Erica, smiling. ' But please stop ;
I'm afraid you will try to turn prophet next,
and I'm sure you will prophesy something
horrid.'

'It would need no very clear-sighted prophet

THE WHEELS EUX DOWX. 227

to] prophesy that you will have to let yonr
wheels run down for a little while.'

' Do you mean that you think T shall die V
asked Erica, languidly. ' It wouldn't be at all
convenient just now; father couldn't spare me.
Do you know,' and her face brightened, ' he is
really beginning to use me a good deal !'

* I didn't mean that I thought your wheels
would run down in that way/ said Charles
Osmond, touched by the pathos of her words.
' I may even be wrong, but I think you will
want a long rest, and I am quite sure you
mustn't lose a day before seeing a doctor. I
should like ray brother to see you : Brian is only
junior partner, you know.'

' What, another Mr Osmond I How muddled
we shall get between you all !' said Erica,
laughing.

*" I should think that Brian might be Brian
by this time,' said Charles Osmond, ' that will
dispose of one ; and perhaps you would like to
follow the example of one of my servants, who
I hear invariably speaks of me as " the dear
rev." '

Q ^

228 WE TWO.

Erica laughed.

.' Noj I shall call you my " prophet," though
it is true you have begun by being a prophet of
evil ! By-the-by, you cannot say again that I
am Dot impartial. What do you think Tom and
I did last week V

'Read the New Testament backwards V

' No, we went to a Holy Scripture Society
meeting at Exeter Hall.'

* Hope you were edified,' said Charles Os-
mond, with a little twinkle in his eye; but he
sighed, nevertheless.

' Well,' said Erica, ' it was rather curious to
hear everything reversed, and there was a good
deal of fun altogether. They talked a great
deal about the numbers of bibles, testaments,
and portions which had been sent out ; there was
one man who spoke very broadly, and kept on
speaking of the ^'j:)o?'i^/o^i5," and there was anoth-
er whom we called the " Great Door," because
eight times in his speech he said that a great door
had been opened for them in Italy and other places.
Altogether, I thought them rather smug and
self-satisfied, especially one man whose face

THE WHEELS RUN DOWN. 229

shone on the slightest provocation, and who
remarked, in broad Lincolnshire, that they had
been '* Aboondantly blessed/'' After his speech
a little shortj sleek, oily man got np, and talked
about Providence. Apparently it had been
very kind to him, and he thought the other
sort of thing did best for those who got it.
But there were one or two really good
speakers, and I daresay they were all in ear-
nest. Still, you know, Tom and I felt rather
like fish out of water, and especially when they
began to sing, '^ Oh, Bible, blessed Bible V and
a lady would make me share her hymn-book.
Then, too, there was a collection, and the man
made quite a pause in front of us, and of course
we couldn^t give anything. Altogether, I felt
rather horrid and hypocritical for being there
at all.^

' Is that your only experience of one of our
meetings V

' Oh, no, father took me with him two or
three times to Westminster Abbey a good many
years ago ; we heard the dean, father admired
him very much. I like AVestminster Abbey ! It

230 WE TWO.

seems to belong a little to us, too, because it is
so national. And then it so beautiful, and I
liked hearing the music. I wonder though that
yoQ are not a little afraid of having it so much
in your worship ; I remember hearing a beauti-
ful anthem there once, which just thrilled one
all through. I wonder that you don^t fear that
people should mistake that for what you call
spiritual fervour.'

' I think perhaps there is a danger in any
undue introduction of externals, but anyone
whose spirit has ever been awakened will never
mistake the mere thrill of sensuous rapture for
the quickening of his spirit by the Unseen.'

' You are talking riddles to me now !' said
Erica, ' but I feel sure that some of the people
who go to church regularly only like it be-
cause of that appeal to the senses. I shall
never forget going one afternoon into Notre
Dame with Madame Lemercier. A flood of
crimson and purple light was shining in
through the south transept windows. You could
see tlie white-robed priests and choristers —
there was one boy with the most perfect voice

THE ^YHEELS RUN DOWN. 231

you can conceive. I don^t know what they Avere
singing, something very sweet and mournful,
and, as that one voice rang up into the vaulted
roof, I saw Madame Lemercier fall down on her
knees and pray in a sort of rapture. Even I
myself felt the tears come to my eyes, just
because of the loveliness, and because the blood
in one's veins seemed to bound. And then, still
singing, the procession passed into the nave,
and the lovely voice grew more and more dis-
tant. It was a wonderful effect; no doubt the
congregation thought they felt devout, but, if
so, then 1 too felt devout, — quite as religious as
they. Tour spiritual fervour seems to me to
resolve itself into artistic effect produced by an
appeal to the senses and emotions.'

' And I must repeat my riddle/ said Charles
Osmond, quietly. ' No awakened spirit could
ever mistake the one for the other. It is im-
possible ! how impossible you will one day
realise.'

' One evil prophecy is enough for to-day !'
said Erica, laughing. ' If I stay any longer, you
will be prophesying my acceptance of Christi-

232 WE TWO.

anity? No, no, ray father will be grieved
enough if your first prediction comes true, but,
if I were to turn Christian, I think it would
break his heart !'

She rose to go, and Charles Osmond went
with her to the door, extracting a promise that
she would discuss things with her aunt, and if
she approved send for Mr. Osmond at once. He
watched her across the square, then turning
back into his study paced to and fro in deep
thought. Erica's words rang in his ears. 'If
I were to turn Christian, I think it would break
his heart !' How strangely this child was situ-
ated ! How almost impossible it seemed that
she could ever in this world come to the light.
And yet the difficulty might perhaps be no
hindrance to one so beautifully sincere, so ready
to endure anything and everything for the
sake. of what she now considered truth. She
had all her father's zeal and self-devotion ;
surely the offering up of self, even in a mistak-
en cause, must sooner or later lead to .the
Originator of all self-sacrifice. Surely some of
those who seem only to thwart God, honestly

THE WHEELS RUN DOWN. 233

deeming Christianity a mischievous delusion,
are really acting more in His spirit, uncon-
sciously better doing His will than many who
openly declare themselves on His side !
Yet, as Charles Osmond mused over the past
lives of Luke Raeburn and his daughter, and
pictured their probable future, a great grief
filled his heart. They were both so loveable, so
noble ! that they should miss in a great measure
the best of life seemed such a grievous pity !
The chances that either of them would renounce
atheism were, he could not but feel, infinitesi-
mally small. Much smaller for the father than
for the child.

It was true, indeed, that she had never fairly
.grasped any real idea of the character of Christ.
He had once grasped it to a certain extent, and
had lost the preception of its beauty and truth.
It was true also that Erica's transparent sincer-
ity, her quick perception of the beautiful, might
help very greatly to overcome her deeply- in-
grained prejudices. But even then what an agony
— what a fearful struggle would lie before her.
* I think it would break his heart !' Charles

234 WE TWO.

Osmond felt his breath come fast and hard at
the mere thought of such a difference between
the father and daughter. Could human strength
possibly be equal to such a terrible trial? For
these two were everything to each other. Erica
worshipped her father, and Raeburn's father-
hood was the truest, deepest, tenderest part of
his character. No, human strength could not
do it, but —

' I am ; uyle ye drede !'

His eye fell on a little illuminated scroll
above his mantel-piece, WycliPs rendering of
Christ's reassuring word to the fearful disciples.
Yes, with the revelation of Himself, He would
give the strength, make it possible to dread
nothing, not even the infliction of grief to one's
nearest and dearest. Much pain, much sacrifice
there would be in His service, but dread — never 1
The strength of the ' I am,' bade it for ever
cease. In that strength the weakest could
conquer.

But he had wandered on into a dim future^
had pictured a struggle which in all probability
would not take place. Even were that the

THE WHEELS RUN DOWN. 235

case, however, he needed these words of assur-
ance all the more himself. They wove them-
selves into his reverie as he paced to and fro :
the}- led him further and further away from
perplexed surmises as to the future of Raeburn
and Erica, but closer to their souls, because
they took him strtiight to the ' God and Father
of all, who is above all, and through all, and
in all.'

The next morning, as he was prepariog a
sermon for the following Sunday, there came a
knock at his study door. His brother came in.
He was a fine looking man of two or three and
fifty.

'I can^t stay,'' he said, ' I've a long round,
but I just looked in to tell you about your little
heretic'

Charles Osmond looked up anxiously.

' It is as you thought,' continued his brother.
' 8hght curvature of the spine. She's a brave
little thing ; I don't wonder you are interested
in her.'

' It means a long rest, I suppose V

' Yes, I told her a year in a recumbent pos-

236 WE TWO.

ture ; for I fancy she is one of those restless
beings who will do nothing at all unless you
are pretty plain with them. It is possible that
six or eight months may be sufficient.'

' How did she take it V

* Oh, in the pluckiest way you can conceive !
Tried to laugh at the prospect, wanted me to
measure her to see how much she grew in the
time, said she should expect at least three
inches to reward her.'

*A Raeburn could hardly be deficient in
courage. Luke Haeburn is without exception
the bravest man I ever met.-*

' And I'd back his daughter against any
woman I know,' said the doctor.

He left the room, but the news he had
brought caused a long pause in his brother's
sermon.

237

CHAPTER XII.

He is a man both loving and severe,
A tender heart, a will inflexible.

Longfellow.

Luke Raebuen bad been lecturing in one of
the large manufacturing towns. It was the
hottest part of a sultry day in June. He was
returning home, and sat in a broiling third-class
carriage reading a paper. Apparently what he
read was the reverse of gratifying, for there
was a look of annoyance on his usually serene
face ; he was displeased with the report of his
lecture given in the local papers, it was calcu-
lated to mislead very greatly.

Other matters, too, were harassing him just

238 WE T^YO.

then, and he was, moreover, paying the penalty
of his two years' campaign, in which his almost
superhnman exertions and the privations he had
voluntarily endured had told severely upon his
health. Possessed of a singularly well-regulat-
ed mind, and having in an unusual degree the
inestimable gift of common-sense, he neverthe-
less often failed to use it in his personal affairs.
He had no idea of sparing himself, no idea of
husbanding his strength ; this was indeed
great, but he treated himself as if it were inex-
haustible. The months of trouble had turned
his hair quite white, he was now a more notice-
able-looking man than ever.

Not unfrequently he made friends with the
men with whom he travelled ; he was always
studying life from the working-man's point of
view, and there was such a charm in his genial
manner and ready sympathy that he invariably
succeeded in drawing people out. But on this
day he was not in the humour for it ; instead, he
thought over the abusive article and the man-
gled report in the Longstaff Mercui'ij^ and de-
bated within himself whether it were worth an

239

action for libel. His love of fightiDg said yes,
his common-sense said no, and in the end com-
mon-sense won the day, but left him doubly
depressed. He moved to the shady side of the
carriage and looked out of the window. He
was a great lover of Nature, and Nature was
looking her loveliest just then. The trees, in
all the freshness of early June, lifted their
foliage to the bluest of skies, the meadows
were golden with buttercups, the cattle grazed
peacefully, the hay-fields waved unmown in the
soft summer air, which, though sparing no
breath for the hot and dusty travellers, was yet
strong enough to sweep over the tall grasses
in long undulating waves that made them shim-
mer in the sunlight.

Raeburn's face grew serene once more ; he
had a very quick perception of the beautiful.
Presently he retired again behind a newspaper,
this time the Daily Review^ and again his brow
grew stern, for there was bad news from the
seat of war ; he read the account of a great
battle, read the numbers of his slain country-
men, and of those who had fallen on the

240 WE TWO.

euemy's side. It was an unrightous war, and
his heart burnt within him at the thought of
the inhuman havoc thus caused by a false am-
bition. iVgain^ as if he were fated that day to
be confronted with the dark side of life, the
papers gave a long account of a discovery made
in some charity school^ where young children
had been hideously ill-treated. Raeburn, who
was the most fatherly of men, could hardly
restrain the expression of his righteous indig-
nation. All this mismanagement, this reckless
waste of life, this shameful cruelty, was
going on in what was called ' Free England.'
And here was he, a middle-aged man, and
time was passing on with frightful rapidity,
and, though he had never lost an opportunity of
lifting up his voice against oppression, how
little had he actually accompHshed !

' So many worlds, so much to do.
So little done, such things to be !'

That was the burden of the unuttered cry
which filled his whole being. That was the
point where his atheism often brought him to a
noble despair. But far from prompting him to

EAEBUKN'S HOME-COMINa. 241

repeat the maxim — ' Let us eat and drink, for
to-morrow we die !' it spurred him on rather to a
sort of fiery energy^ never satisfied with what it
had accomplished. Neither the dissatisfaction,
however, nor even the despair ever made him
feel the need of any power above man. On the
contrary, the unaccountable mystery of pain
and evil was his strongest argument against
the existence of a God. Upon that rock he had
foundered as a mere boy, and no argument had
ever been able to reconvince him. Impatience
of present ill had in this, as in many other
cases, proved the bane of his life.

He would w^rite and speak about, these cases
of injustice, he would hold them up to the
obloquy they so richly deserved.

Scathing sentences already took shape in his
brain, but deeper investigation would be neces-
sary before he could write anything. In the
meantime to cool himself, to bring himself into
a judicial frame of mind, he took a Hebrew book
from his bag, and spent the rest of the journey
in hard study.

Harassed, and tired, and out of spirits as he

VOL. I. R

242 ^E TWO.

was, be nevertheless felt a certain pleasurable
sensation as he left St. Pancras, driving home-
ward through the hot crowded streets. Erica
would be waiting for him at home, and he had
a comparatively leisure afternoon. There was
the meeting on the Opium Trade at eight, but
he might take her for a turn in one of the parks
beforehand. She had always been a compan-
ion to him since her very babyhood, but now
he was able to enjoy her companionship even
more than in the olden times. Her keen intel-
lect, her ready sympathy, her eagerness to
learn, made her the perfection of a disciple,
while not unnaturally he delighted in tracing
the many similarities of character between him-
self and his child. Then, too, in his hard, argu-
mentative, fighting life it was an unspeakable
relief to be able to retire every now and then
into a home which no outer storms could shake
or disturb. Fond as he was of his sister, Mrs.
Craigie, and Tom, they constituted rather the
innermost circle of his friends and followers ; it
was Erica who made the Home though the
others shared the house. It was to Erica's

raeburn's home-coming. 243

pure childlike devotion that he invariably turn-
ed for comfort.

Dismissing the cab at the corner of Guilford
Square, he walked down the dreary little pas-
sage, looking up at the window to see if she
were watching for him as usual. But to-day
there Avas no expectant face ; he recollected,
however_, that it was Thursday, always a busy
day wath them.

He opened the door with his latch-key and
went in ; still there was no sound in the house ;
he half-paused for an instant, thinking that he
should certainly hear quick footsteps, the open-
ing of a door, some sign of welcome, but all
was as silent as death. Half angry with him-
self for having grown so expectant of that
loving watch as to be seriously apprehen-
sive at its absence, he hastily put down his
bag and walked into the sitting-room, his
calm exterior belying a nameless fear at his
heart.

What the French call expressively a ' seri^ement
de cceur^ seized him when he saw that Erica
"was indeed at home, but that she was lying on

r2

244 WE TWO.

the couch. She did not even spring up to
greet him.

' Is anything the matter, dear ? Are you ill V
he asked, hurriedly crossing the little room.

' Oh, have yon not seen Aunt Jean ? she was
going to meet you at St. Pancras,' said Erica,
her heart failing her a little at the prospect of
telling her own bad news. But the exceeding
anxiety of her father's face helped her to rise
to the occasion. She laughed, and the laugh
was natural enough to reassure him.

* It is nothing so very dreadful, and all this
time you have never even given me a kiss,
father.' She drew down the grand-looking
white head, and pressed her fair face to his.
He sat down beside her.

' Tell me, dear, what is wrong with you/ he
repeated.

* Well, I felt rather out of order, and they
said I ought to see some one, and it seems that
my tiresome spine is getting crooked, and the
long and the short of it is that Mr. Doctor Os-
mond says I shall get quite well again if I'm
careful ; but' — she added, lightly, yet with the

raeburn's home-coming. 245

gentleness of one who thinks merely of the
hearer's point of view, — ' I shall have to be a
passive verb for a year, and you will have to be
my " Very strong man, Kwasind." '

* A year !' he exclaimed, in dismay.

^ Brian half gave me hope that it might not
be so long,' SEiid Erica^ ' if I'm very good and
careful, and of course I shall be both. I am
only sorry because it will make me very use-
less. I did hope I should never have been a
burden on you again, father.'

' Don't talk of such a thing, my little son
Eric,' he said, very tenderly. ' Who should
take care of you if not your own father. Be-
sides, if you never wrote another line for me^
you would help me by just being yourself. A
burden !'

' Well, I've made you look as grave as half-a-
dozen law-suits!' said Erica, pretending to
stroke the lines of care from his forehead. * I've
had the morning to ruminate over the prospect,
and really, now that you know, it is not so very
dreadful. A year will soon pass.'

* I look to you, Eric,' said her father. 'To

24 G WE TWO.

show the world that we Secularists know how
to bear pain. You won't waste the year, if you
can do it.'

Her face lighted up.

' It was like you to think of that !' she said,
' that would indeed be worth doing.'

Still, do what she would, Erica could not talk
him back to cheerfulness. He was terribly dis-
tressed at her news, and more so when he
found that she was suffering a good deal. He
thought with a pang of the difference of the
reality to his expectations. No walk for them
in the park that evening, nor probably for
many years to come ! Yet he was ignorant of
these matters, perhaps he exaggerated the
danger or the duration ; he would go across
and see Brian Osmond at once !

Left once more to herself, the colour died out
of Erica's cheeks; she lay there pale and still,
but her face was almost rigid with resoluteness..

* I am not going to give way !' she thought
to herself. 'I won't shed a single tear. Tears
are wasteful luxuries, bad for body and mind.
And yet — yet — oh, it is hard, just when I w^ant-

raeburn's home-coming. 247

ed to help father most I Just when I wanted
to keep him from being worried ! And a whole
year ! How shall I bear it, when even six
hours has seemed half a life-time I This is
what Thekla would call a cross, but I only call
it my horrid, stupid, idiotic old spine ! Well, I
must try to show them that Luke Eaeburn's
daughter knows how to bear pain : I must be
patient_, however much I boil over in private.
Yet is it honest, I wonder, to keep a patient
outside, while inside you are all one big grum-
ble'^ Rather Pharisaical — outside of the cup and
platter ; but it is all 1 shall be able to do, I'm
sure. That is where Mr. Osmond's Christianity
would come in ; I do believe that goes right
through his life, privatest thoughts and all.
Odd, that a delusion should have such power,
and over such a man ! There is Sir Michael
Cunningham, too, one of the greatest and best
men in England, yet a Christian ! Great in-
tellects and much study, and still they remain
Christians — 'tis extraordinary. But a Christian
would have the advantage over me in a case
like this. First of all, I suppose, they would

248 WE TWO.

feel that they could serve their God as well on
their backs as upright, while all the help I shall
be able to give the cause is dreadfully indirect
and problematical. Then certainly they would
feel that they might be getting ready for the
next World where all wrong is, they believe, to
be set right, while I am only terribly hindered
in getting ready for this world, — a whole year
without the chance of a lecture ! And then they
have all kinds of nice theories about pain, dis-
cipline, and that sort of thing, which no doubt
make it more bearable, while to me it is just
the one unmitigated evil. But oh ! they don't
know what pain means ! for there is no death to
them — no endless separation. What a delusion
it is ! they ought to be happy enough. Oh,
mother ! mother !'

After all, what she really dreaded in her en-
forced pause was the leisure for thought. She
had plunged into work of all kinds, had half
killed herself with work, had tried to hold her
despair at arms' length. But now there was no
help for it. She must rest, and the thoughts
must come.

249

CHAPTER XIIL

LOSING ONE FRIEND TO GAIN ANOTHER.

For toleration had its griefs,
And charity its trial.

AYhittier.

* WelLj Osmond, you got into hot water a few
years ago fpr defending Raeburn in public, and
by this tinae you will find it not merely hot, but
up to boiling point. The fellow is more notori-
ous than ever.'

The speaker was one of Charles Osmond's
college friends, a certain Mr. Roberts, who had
been abroad for a good many years, but, having
returned on account of his health, had for a few
months been acting as curate to his friend.

* A man who works as indefatigably as Mr.
Raeburn has done can hardly avoid being no-
ticed,' replied Charles Osmond.

250 WE TWO.

' You speak as if you admired the fellow !'

' There is a great deal to admire in Mr.
Raeburu. However greatly mistaken he is,
there is no doubt that he is a brave man, and
an honest.'

' You can speak in such a way of a man who
makes his living by speaking and writing
against God !'

' I hope I can speak the truth of every man,
whether his creed agrees with mine or not.'

' A man who grows rich on blasphemy ! who
sows poison among the people and reaps the
harvest I* exclaimed Mr. Roberts.

' That he teaches fearful error, I quite allow,'
said Charles Osmond, ' but it is the grossest in-
justice to say that he does it for gain. His
atheism brought him to the very brink of star-
vation some years ago. Even now, he is so
crippled by the endless litigation he has had
that he lives in absolute penury.'

*But that letter you sent to the Church
Chronicle w^as so uncalled for, you put the com-
parison so broadly.'

' I put it in plain English,' said Charles

LOSING ONE FRIEND TO GAIN ANOTHER. 251

Osmond, 'I merely said, as I think, that he puts
many of us to shame by his great devotion.
The letter was a reply to a very unfair article
about the Eilchester riot; it was absolutely neces-
sary that some one should speak. I tell you,
Roberts, if you knew the man, you could not
speak so bitterly of him. It is not true that he
leads a selfish, easy-going life ; he has spent
thousands and thousands of pounds in the
defence of his cause. I don't believe there is
a man in England who has led a more self-
denying life. It may be very uncomfort-
able news for us, but we've no right to
shut onr ears to it. I wish that man could
stir up an honest sense of shame in every
sleepy Christian in the country. I believe
that, indeed, to be his rightful misson. Rae-
burn is a grand text for a sermon which
the nation sorely needs. " Here is a man who
spends his whole strength in propagating his
so-called gospel of atheism. Do you spend
your whole strength in spreading the gospel of
Christ ? Here is a man, willing to leave his
home, willing to live without one single luxury,

252 TVE TWO.

denying hinaself all that is not necessary to
actual health. Have you ever denied yourself
anything? Here is a man who spends his
"whole living — all that he has — on what he be-
lieves to be the truth. What meagre tithe do
you bestow upon the religion of which you
speak so much ? Here is a man who dares to
stand up alone in defence of what he holds true,
a man who never flinches. How far are you
brave in the defence of your faith? Do you
never keep a prudent silence ? Do you never
hoAvlwith the wolves ?'' '

' Thank heaven you are not in the pulpit !'
ejaculated Mr. Roberts.

' I wish those words could be sent through
the length and breadth of the land,' said Charles
Osmond.

'No doubt Mr. Raeburn would thank you,'
said his friend^ with a sharp-edged smile. ' It
w^ould be a nice little advertisement for him.
Why, from a Church of England parson it would
make his fortune! My dear Osmond, you are
the best fellow in the world, but don't you see
that you are playing into the enemy's hands.'

LOSING ONE FRIEND TO GAIN ANOTHER. 253

'I am trying to speak the words that God
has given nie to speak,' said Charles Osmond.
'The result I can well trust to Him. An un-
comfortable truth will never be popular. The
words of our Lord Himself were not popular ;
but they sank into men's hearts and bore fruit,
though He was put to death as a blasphemer
and a revolutionary.^

' Well, at least then, if you must take up the
cudgels in his defence, do not dishonour the
clerical profession by personal acquaintance
with the man. I hear that he has been seen
actually in your house_, that you are even inti-
mate with his family.'

' Roberts, I didn't think our beliefs were so
very different, in fact, I used to think we were
nearer to each other on these points than most
men. Surely we both own the universal Father-
hood of God ?'

'Of course, of course,' said Mr. Roberts, quickly.

'And owning that, we cannot help owning^
the universal brotherhood of men. Why should
you then cut yourself off from your brother,
Luke Raeburn V

254 WE TWO.

'He's no brother of mine !' said Mr. Roberts,
in a tone of disgust.

Charles Osmond smiled.

* We do not choose our brothers, we have no
voice in the growth of the family. There they
are.'

' But the man says there is no God !'
' Excuse me, he has never said that. What
he says is, that the word God conveys no
meaning to him. If 3^ou think that the best way
to show your belief in the All-Father and your
love to all His children lies in refusing so much
as to touch those who don't know Him, you
are of course justified in shunning every atheist
or agnostic in the world. But I do not think
that the best way. It was not Christ's yvety.
Therefore I hail every possible opportunity of
meeting Mr. Raeburn or his colleagues, try to
find all the points we have in common, try as
far as possible to meet them on their own
ground.'

* And the result will be that people will
call you an atheist yourself I' broke in Mr.
Roberts.

LOSING ONE FRIEND TO GAIN ANOTHER. 255

' That would not greatly matter,' said Charles
Osmond. ' It would be a mere sting for the
moment. It is not what men call us that we
have to consider, but how we are fulfilling the
work God has given us to do.'

'^Pon my life, it makes me feel sick to hear
you talk like this about that miserable Rae-
burn !' exclaimed Mr. Roberts hotly. ^ I tell
you, Osmond, that you are ruining your repu-
tation, losing all chance of preferment, just
because of this mistaken zeal. It makes me
furious to think that such a man as you should
suffer for such a creature as Raeburn.'

' Have you forgotten that such creatures as
you and I and Luke Eaeburn had such a Sav-
iour as Jesus Christ? Come, Roberts, in your
heart you know you agree with me. If one
is indeed our Father, then indeed we are all
brethren.'

'I do not hold with you!' retorted Mr. Rob^
erts, the more angrily because he had really
hoped to convince his friend. ' I wouldn't sit
in the same room with the fellow, if you offered
me the richest living in England ! I wouldn't

25(5 WE TWO.

shake hands with him to be made an arch-
bishop ! I wouldn't touch him with a pair of
tongs !'

' Even less charitable than St. Dunstan to
the devil,' said Charles Osmond, smiling a little
but sadly. ' Except in that old legend, how-
ever, I don't think Christianity ever mentions
tongs. If you can't love your enemies, and
pray for them, and hold out a brotherly hand to
them, perhaps it were indeed better to hold
aloof and keep as quiet as you can.'

' It is clearly impossible for us to work together
any longer, Osmond,' said Mr. Roberts, rising.
' I am sorry that such a cause should separate
us, but if you will persist in visiting an outcast
of society, a professed atheist, the most bitter
enemy of our church, I cannot allow my name to
be associated with yours, — it is impossible that
I should hold office under you.'

So the two friends parted.

Charles Osmond was human, and almost
inevitably a sort of reaction began in his mind
the instant he was alone. He had lost one of
his best friends^ he knew as well as possible

LOSING ONE FRIEND TO GAIN ANOTHER. 257

that they could never be on the same footing as
before. He had, moreover, lost in him a valu-
able co-worker. Then_, too, it was true enough
that his defence of Raeburn was bringing him
into great disfavour with the religious world,
and he was a sensitive and naturally a proud
man, who found blame_, and reproach^ and con-
temptuous disapproval very hard to bear. Years
of hard fighting, years of patient imitation of
Christ, had wonderfully ennobled him ; but he
had not yet attained to the sublime humility
which, being free from all thought of self,
cares nothing, scarcely even pauses to think
of the world's judgment, too absorbed in
the work of the Highest to have leisure
for thought of the lowest, too full of love
for the race to have love to spare for self.
To this ideal he was struggling, but he had
not yet reached it, and the thought of his own
reputation, his own feelings, would creep in»
He was not a selfishly ambitious man, but every
one Avho is conscious of ability, everyone who
feels within him energies lying fallow for want
of opportunity, must be ambitious for a larger
VOL. I. S

258 WE TWO.

sphere of work. Jnst as he was beginning to
dare to allow himself the hope of some change
in his work, some wider field, just as he was
growing sure enough of himself to dare to ac-
cept any greater work which might have been
offered him, he must, by bringing himself into
evil repute, lose every chance of preferment.
And for what? For attempting to obtain a just
judgment for the enemy of his faith ; for hold-
ing out a brotherly hand to a man who might
very probably not care to take it ; for consort-
ing w^ith those who would at best regard him
as an amiable fanatic. Was this worth all
it would cost? Could the exceedingly prob-
lematical gain make up for the absolutely cer-
tain loss?

He took up the day's newspaper. His eye
was at once attracted to a paragraph headed,
* Mr. Raeburn at Longstaff.' The report, sent
from the same source as the report in the
Longstaff Mercury^ which had so greatly dis-
pleased Raeburn that morning, struck Charles
Osmond in a most unfavourable light. This
bitter opponent of Christianity, this unsparing

LOSING ONE FRIEND TO GAIN ANOTHER. 259

denouncer of all that be held most sacred, this
was the man for whom he was sacrificing friend-
ship, reputation, advancement. A feeling of
absolute disgust rose within him. For a mo-
ment the thought came, ' I can't have any more
to do with the man.'

But he was too honest not to detect almost
at once his own Pharisaical, un-Christlike
spirit.

'Look not every man on his own things, but
every man also on the things of others. Let
this mind be in you which was also in Christ
Jesus.'

He , had been selfishly consulting his own
happiness, his own ease. Worse still, he, of all
men in the world, had dared to set himself up
as too virtuous forsooth to have anything to do
■with an atheist. Was that the- mind which was
in Christ ? Was He a strait-laced, self-righteous
Pharisee, too good, too religious to have any-
thing to say to those who disagreed with Him ?
Did He not live and die for those who were yet
enemies to God? Was not the work of recon-
ciliation the work He came for? Did He calcu-

s2

260 WE TWO.

late the loss to Himself, the risk of failure ?
Ah, no, those who would imitate God must first
give as a free gift, without thought of self, per-
fect love to all, perfect justice through that love,
or else they are not like the Father who ' mak-
eth His sun to shine on the evil and the good,
and sendeth rain on the just and on the unjust.'

Charles Osmond paced to and fro, the look
of trouble gradually passing from his face.
Presently he paused beside the open window ;
it looked upon the little back garden_, a tiny
strip of ground indeed, but just now bright
with sunshine and fresh with the beauty of early
summer. The sunshine seemed to steal into
his heart as he prayed.

' All-Father, drive out my selfish cowardice,
my self-righteous conceit. Give me Thy spirit of
perfect love to all, give me Thy pure hatred of
sin. Melt ray coldness with Thy burning char-
ity, and if it be possible make me fit to be Luke
Raeburn's friend.'

While he still stood by the window a visi-
tor was announced. He had been too much
absorbed to catch the name, but it seemed the

LOSING ONE FRIEND TO GAIN ANOTHER. 261

most natural thing that on turning round
he should find himself face to face with the pro-
phet af atheism.

There he stood, a splendid specimen of hu-
manity ; every line in his rugged Scottish face
bespoke a character of extraordinary force, but
the eyes which in public Charles Osmond had seen
flashing with the fire of the man's enthusiasm, or
gleaming with a cold metallic light which indi-
cated exactly his steely endurance of ill-treat-
ment, were now softened and deepened b}^ sad-
ness. His heart went out to him. Already he
loved the man, only hitherto the world's opin-
ion had crept into his heart between each meet-
ing, and had paralysed the free God-like love.
But it was to do so no longer. That afternoon
he had dealt it a final blow, there was no more
any room for it to rear its fair-speaking form,
no longer should its veiled selfishness, its so-
called virtuous indignation turn him into a
Pharisaical judge.

He received him with a hand-shake which
conveyed to Raeburn much of the warmth, the
reality, the friendliness of the man. He had

262 WE TWO.

always liked Charles Osmond, but he had gen-
erally met him either in public, or when he was
harassed and pre-occupied. Now, when he was
at leisure, when, too, he was in great trouble, he
instinctively perceived that Osmond had in a
rare degree the broad-hearted sympathy which
he was just now in need of. From that minute
a life-long friendship sprang up between the
two men.

' I came really to see your son,' said Raeburn,
' but they tell me he is out. I want to know
the whole truth about Erica.'

It was not his way to speak ver}^ much where
he felt deeply, but Charles Osmond could detect
all tlie deep anxiety, the half-indulged hope
which lay hidden behind the strong reserved
exterior. He had heard enough of the case to
be able to satisfy him, to assure him that there
w^as no danger, that all must be left to time
and patience and careful observance of the
doctor's regulations. Raeburn sighed with
relief at the repeated assurance that there was
no danger, that recovery was only a question
of time. Death had so recently visited his

LOSING ONE FRIEND TO GAIN ANOTHEK. 263

home that a grisly fear bad taken possession of
his heart. Once free of that, he could speak
almost cheerfully of the lesser evil.

' It will be a great trial to her, such absolute
imprisonment ; she is never happy unless she
is hard at work. But she is brave and strong-
willed. AVill you look in and see her when you
can?'

'Certainly,' said Charles Osmond. ' We
must do our best to keep up her spirits.'

' Yes, luckily she is a great reader, other-
wise such a long rest would be intolerable, I
should fancy.'

' You do not object to my coming to see her V
said Charles Osmond, looking full into his com-
panion's eyes. ' You know that we discuss
religious questions pretty freely.'

'Religious questions always are freely dis-
cussed in my house,' said Raeburn. ^It will be
the greatest advantage to her to have to turn
things well over in her mind. Besides, we
always make a point of studying our ad-
versaries' case even more closely than our
own, and, if she has a chance of doing it per-

264 - WE TWO.

sonally as well as through books, all the better.'
' But supposing that such an unlikely thing-
were to happen as that she should see reason
to change her present views ? Supposing, it
you can suppose anything so unlikely, she
should ever in future years come to believe in
Christianity V

Raeburn smiled, not quite pleasantly.
' It is as you say such a very remote contin-
gency !' He paused, grew grave, then contin-
ued wath all his native nobility : ' Yet I like
you the better for having brought forward such
an idea, improbable as I hope it may be consid-
ered. I feel very sure of Erica. She has
thought a great deal, she has had every possi-
ble advantage. We never teach on authority ;
she has been left perfectly free and has learned
to weigh evidences and probabilities, not to be
led astray by any emotional fancies but to be
guided by reason. She has always heard both
sides of the case ; she has lived as it were in an
atmosphere of debate, and has been, and of course
always will be, quite free to form her own
opinion on every subject. It is not for nothing

LOSING ONE FRIEND TO GAIN ANOTHER. 265

that we call ourselves Freethinkers. Absolute
freedom of thought and speech is part of our
creed. So far from objecting to your holding-
free discussions with my daughter^ I shall be
positively grateful to you, and particularly just
now. I fancy Erica has inherited enough of
njy nature to enjoy nothing better than a little
opposition.'

' I know you are a born fighter/ said Charles
Osmond. ' We sympathise with each other in
that. And, next to the bliss of a hard-won
victory, I place the satisfaction of being well
conquered.'

Raeburn laughed.

' I am glad we think alike there. People are
very fond of describing me as a big bull-dog,
but if they would think a little they would see
that the love of overcoming obstacles is deeply
rooted in the heart of every true man. What
is the meaning of our English love of field
sports ? What the explanation of the mania
for Alpine climbings ? It is no despicable
craving for distinction, it is the innate love of
fighting, struggling, and conquering.'

2QQ WE TWO.

' Well, there are many obstacles which we
can struggle to remove side by side/ said
Charles Osmond. ' We should be like one man,
I fancy, on the question of the opium trade, for
instance.'

In a few vigorous words Raeburn denounced
this monstrous national sin.

'Are you going to the meeting to-night?' he
added, after a pause.

^ Yes, I had thought of it. • Let us go to-
gether. Shall you speak?'

' Not to-night,' said Raeburn, a smile flickering
about his usually stern lips. ' The Right Rev-
erend Father, &c., &c., who is to occupy the
chair, might object to announcing that ^' Mr
Raeburn would now address the meeting.^' No,
this is not the time or place for me. So pre-
judiced are people that the mere connection of
my name with the question would probably do
more harm than good. 1 should like, I confess,
to get up without introduction, to speak not
from the platform but from among the audience
incognito. But that is impossible for a man
who has the misfortune to be five inches above

LOSING ONE FRIEND TO GAIN ANOTHER. 267

the average height, and whose white hair has
become a proverb, since some one made the
■unfortunate remark, repeated in a hundred
newspapers, that the " hoary head was only
a crown of glory when found in the way of
righteousness." '

Charles Osmond could not help laughing.

' The worst of these newspaper days is that
one never can make an end of anything. That
remark has been- made to me since at several
meetings. At the last, I told the speaker that
I was so tired of comments on my personal
appearance that I should soon have to resort
either to the dyer or the wig-maker. Bat here
am I wasting your time and my own, and for-
getting the poor little maid at home. Good-
bye. I'll call in passing, then, at a quarter to
eight. Tom Craigie will probably be with me,
he is very rabid on the subject.'

'Craigie and I are quite old friends,' said
Charles Osmond.

And then, as on the preceding night he
had stood at the door while Erica crossed the
square, so now involuntarily his eyes followed

268 WE TWO.

Raebin-D. In his very \valk the character ot
the man was indicated : — firm, steady, imper-
turbable, straight-forward.

269

CHAPTER XIV.

CHARLES OSMOND SPEAKS HIS MIND.

Fiat justitia ruat coelum.

Proverb,

Justice, — the miracle worker amongst men.

John Bright (July 14, 1868.)

* I THOUGHT you were never coming to see
me,' said Erica, putting down a newspaper and
looking up with eager welcome at Charles
Osmond, who had just been announced.

' It has not been for want of will,' he re-
plied, sitting down near her couch, 'but I have
been overwhelmed with work the last few days.
How are you getting on "? I am glad you don^t
altogether refuse to see your prophet of evil.'

' It would have been worse if you hadn't
spoken,' she said, in the tone of one trying*

270 WE TWO.

bard to make the best of things. ^ I was rather
rash though to say that I should Hke my wheels
to ruu down ; I didn't know how terrible it is
to be still. One does so grudge all the lost
time.^

' But you will not let this be lost time — you
will read.'

' Oh, yes, happily I can do that. And Mrs.
McNaughton is going to give me physiology
lessons, and dear old Professor Gosse has prom-
ised to come and teach me whenever he can.
He is so devoted to father, you know, I think
be would do anything for me just because I am
bis child. It is a comfort that father has so
many real good friends. What I do so tho-
roughly bate is the thought of having to be a
passive verb for so long. You've no idea how
aggravating it is to lie here and listen to all
that is going on, to hear of great meetings and
not to be able to go, to hear of work to be done
and not to be able to do it. And I suppose
one notices little things more when one is ill,
for just to lie still and watch our clumsy little
servant lay the table for dinner, clattering

CHARLES OSMOND SPEAKS HIS MIND. 271

down the knives and forks and tossing down
the plates^ makes me actually cross ! And then
they let the room get so untidy ; jnst look at
that stack of books for reviewing, and that chaos
of papers in the corner ! If I could but get up
for just five minutes, I shouldn^t mind.'

^Poor child,' said Charles Osmond, 'this
comes very hard on you/

' I know I'm grumbling dreadfully, but if you
knew how horrid it is to be cut off from every-
thing ! And, of course, it happens that another
controversy is beginning about that Longstaff
report. I have been reading half-a-dozen of to-
day's newspapers, and each one is worse than
the last. Look here ! Just read that, and try to
imagine it's your father they are slandering !
Oh, if I could but get up for one minute and
stamp I'

'And is this untrue?' asked Charles Osmond,
when he had finished the account in question.

' There is just enough truth in it to make it
worse than a direct lie,' said Erica, hotly.
'They have quoted his own words, but in a
sense in which he never meant them, or they

272 WE TWO.

have quite disregarded the context. If 3'ou will
give me those books on the table^ I'll just show
you how they have misrepresented him by
hacking out single sentences, and twisting and
distorting all he says in public'

Charles Osmond looked at the passages re-
ferred to. and saw that Erica had not complahi-
ed without reason.

' Yes, that is very imfair — shamefully unfair,'
he said. Then, after a pause, he added abrupt-
ly, ^ Erica, are you good at languages V

' I am very fond of them,' she said, surprised
at the sudden turn he had given to the
conversation.

' Supposing that Mr. Raeburn's speeches and
doings were a good deal spoken of in Europe,
as no doubt they are, and that a long time after
his death one of his successors made some con-
verts to secularism in Italy, and wrote in Italian
all that he could remember of the life and words
of his late teacher. Then suppose that the
Italian life of Raeburn was translated into
Chinese, and that hundreds of years after, a
Heathen Chinee sat down to read it. His

CHARLES OSMOND SPEAKS HIS MIND. 278

Oriental mind found it hard to understand Mr.
Raeburn's thoroughly Western mind ; he didn't
see anything noble in Mr. Raeburn's character,
couldn't understand his mode of thought, read
through the life, perhaps studied it after a
fashion, or believed he did ; then shut it up, and
said there might possibly have been such a man,
but the proofs were very weak, and, even if he
had lived, he didn't think he was any great
shakes, though the people did make such a
fuss about him. Would you call that Heathen
Chinee fair?'

Erica could not help smiling, though she saw
what he was driving at.

But Charles Osmond felt much too keenly to
continue in such a light strain. He was no
weak-minded, pleasant conversationalist, but a
prophet, who knew how to speak hard truths
sometimes.

' Erica,' he said, almost sternly, ' you talk
much about those who quote your father's
words unfairly ; but have you never misquoted
the words of Christ ? You deny Him and dis-
believe in Him, yet you have never really studied
VOL. I. T

274 WE TWO.

His life. You have read the New Testament
through a veil of prejudice. Mind, I am not
saying one word in defence of those so-called
Christians who treat you unfairly or uncharit-
ably ; but I do say that, as far as I can see, you
are quite as unfair to Christ as they are to your
father. Of course, you may reply that Jesus of
Nazareth lived nearly nineteen hundred years
ago, and that your father is still living: that
you have many difficulties and doubts to com-
bat, while our bigots can verify every fact or
quotation with regard to Mr. Raeburn with per-
fect ease and certainty. That is true enough.
But the difficulties, if honestly faced, might be
surmounted. You don^t honestly face them ;
you say to yourself, *' I have gone into all these
matters carefully, and now I have finally made
up my mind ; there is an end of the matter !"
You are naturally prejudiced against Christ ;
every day your prejudices will deepen unless
you strike out resolutely for yourself as a,
truth-seeker, as one who insists on always
considering all sides of the question. At
present you are absolutely unfair, you will not

CHARLES OSMOND SPEAKS HIS MIND. 275

take the trouble to study the hfe of Christ.'
Few people like to be told of their faults.
Erica could just endure it from her father, but
froiQ no one else. She was, besides, too young-
yet to have learnt even the meaning of the
word humiHty. Had Charles Osmond been a
few years younger, she would not even have
listened to him. As it was, he was a grey-
haired man, whom she loved and revered; he
was, moreover, a guest. She was very angry
with him, but she restrained her anger.

He had watched her attentively while he spoke.
She had at first only been surprised; then her
anger had been kindled, and she gave him one
swift flash from eyes which looked like live
coals. Then she turned her face away from
him^ so that he could only see one crimson
cheek. There was a pause after he had said his
say. Presently, with a great effort, Erica faced
him once more, and, in a manner which would
have been dignified had it not been a trifle too
frigid, made some casual remark upon a different
subject. He saw that to stay longer was mere
waste of time.

t2

276 WE TWO.

AVhen the door had closed behind him, Erica's
anger blazed up once more. That he should
have dared to accuse her of unfairness ! That
he should have dared actually to rebuke her I
If he had given her a good shaking, she could
not have felt more hurt and ruffled. And then
to choose this day of all others, just when life
was so hard to her, just when she was condemn-
ed to a long imprisonment. It was simply
brutal of him ! If anyone had told her that he
would do such a things she would not have be-
lieved them. He had said nothing of the sort
to her before, though they had known each
other so long ; but, now that she was ill and
helpless and unable to get away from him, he
had seen fit to come and lecture her. Well, he
was a parson ! she might have known that
sooner or later the horrid, tyrannical, priestl}^
side of him would show ! And yet she had
liked him so much, trusted him so much ! It
was indescribably bitter to think that he was
no longer the hero she had thought him to be.
That, after all, he was not a grand, noble, self-
denying man, but a fault-finding priest !

CHARLES OSMOND SPEAKS HIS MIND. 277

She spent the rest of the afternoon in alter-
nate wrath and grief. In the evening Aunt
Jean read her a somewhat dry book which re-
quired all her attention, and, consequently, her
anger cooled for want of thoughts to stimulate
it. Her father did not come in till late; but, as
he carried her upstairs to bed^ she told him of
Charles Osmond's interview.

* I told him you liked a little opposition,' was
his reply.

* I don't know about opposition, but I didn't
like him, he showed liis priestly side.'

' I am sorry,' replied Raeburn. ' For my part
I genuinely like the man ; he seems to me a
grand fellow, and I should have said not in the
least spoilt by his Christianity, for he is neither
exclusive, nor narrow-minded,, nor opposed to
progress. Infatuated on one point, of course,
but a thorough man in spite of it.'

Left once more alone in her little attic-room.
Erica began to think over things more quietly.
So her father had told him that she liked oppo-
sition, and he had doled out to her a rebuke
which was absolutely unanswerable ! But why

278 WE TWO.

■anaoswerable ? She had been too angry to
reply at the time. It was one of the few maxims
her father had given her, ' When you are angry
be very slow to speak.' But she might write
an answer, a nice, cold, cutting answer, respect-
ful, of course^ but very frigid. She would
clearly demonstrate to him that she was per-
fectly fair, and that he, her accuser, was unfair.

And then, quite quietly, she began to turn
over the accusations in her mind. Quoting the
words of Christ without regard to the context,
twisting their meaning. Neglecting real study
of Christ's character and life. Seeing all through
a veil of prejudice.

She would begin like her father with a
definition of terms. What did he mean
by study ? What did she mean by study ?
Well, such searching analysis, for instance, as
she had applied to the character of Hamlet,
when she had had to get up one of Shakespeare's
plays for her examination. She had worked
very hard at that, had really taken every one of
his speeches and soliloquies, and had tried to
gather his true character from them as well as
from his actions.

CHARLES OSMOXD SPEAKS HIS :\IIND. 279

At this poiut she wandered away from the
subject a little, and began to wonder when she
should hear the result of the examination, and
to hope that she might get a first. By-and-by
she came to herself with a sudden and very un-
comfortable shock. If the sort of work she had
given to Hamlet was study, had she ever studied
the character of Christ ?

She had all her life heard what her father had
to say against Him, and what a good many well-
meaning, but not very convincing, people had
to say for Him. She had heard a few sermons
and several lectures on various subjects connect-
ed with Christ's religion. She had read many
books both for and against Him. She had read
the New Testament. But could she quite hon-
estl^^ say that she had studied the character of
Christ? Had she not been predisposed to think
her father in the right ? He would not at all
approve of that. Had she been a true Free-
thinker? Had she not taken a good deal to be
truth because he said it ? If so, she was not a
bit more fair than the majority of Christians who
never took the trouble to go into things for

280 WE TWO.

themselves, and study things from the point of
view of an outsider.

In the silence and darkness of her little
room, she began to suspect a good many un-
j)leasant and hitherto unknown facts about
herself.

'After all, I do believe that Mr. Osmond was
light,' she confessed at length. ' 1 am glad to
get back my belief in him ; but I've come to a
horrid bit of lath and plaster in m^'self where I
thought it was all good stone.'

She fell asleep and dreamt of the Heathen
Chinee reading the translation of the translation
of her father's words, and disbelieving altogether
in ' that invented demagogue, Luke Raeburn.'

The next day, Charles Osmond, sitting at
work in his study, and feeling more depressed
and hopeless than he would have cared to own
even to himself, was roused by the arrival of a
little three-cornered note. It ran as follows : —

' Dear Mr. Osmond,

' You made me very ang).'y yesterday,
and sad, too, for of course it was a case of "Et tu.

CHARLES OSMOND SPEAKS HIS MIND. 281

Brute." But last night I came to the unpleasant
conclusion that you were quite right, and that
I was quite wrong. To prove to you that I am
no longer angry, I am going to ask you a
great favour. Will you teach me Greek?
Your parable of the Heathen Chinee has set mo
thinking.

' Y'ours very sincerely,

' Erica Baeburn.'

Charles Osmond felt the tears come to his
eyes. The straightforward simplicity of the
letter, the candid avowal of having been ' quite
wrong/ an avowal not easy for one of Erica's
character to make^ touched him inexpressibly.
Taking a Greek grammar from his bookshelves,
he set off at once for Guilford Terrace.

He found Erica looking very white and
fragile, and with lines of suffering about her
mouth ; but, though physically weary, her mind
seemed as vigorous as ever. She received him
with her usual frankness, and with more anima-
tion in her look than he had seen for some weeks.

' I did think you perfectly horrid yesterday !'

282 WE TWO.

she exclaimed. * And was miserable, besides, at
the prospect of losing one of my heroes. You
can be very severe.'

'The infliction of pain is only justified when
the inflictor is certain, or as nearly certain as he
can be, that the pain will be productive of good,'
said Charles Osmond.

' I suppose that is the way you account
for the origin of evil,' said Erica, thoughtfully.

* Yes,' replied Charles Osmond, pleased that
she should have thought of the subject, ' that to
me seems the only possible explanation, other-
wise God would be either not perfectly good or
not omnipotent. His all-wisdom enables Him
to over-rule that pain which He has willed to
be the necessary outcome of infractions of His
order. Pain, you see, is made into a means of
helping us to find out where that order has
been broken, and so teaching us to obey it in
the long run.'

'But if there is an all-powerful God, wouldn't
it have been much better if He had made it im-
possible for us to go wrong V

* It would have saved much trouble, un-

CHARLES OSMOND SPEAKS HIS MIND, 28^

doubteclly ; but do you thick that which costs
us least trouble is generally the most worth
having? I know a noble fellow who has
fought his way upward through sins and
temptations — you would like him, by the way,
for he was once an atheist. He is, by virtue of
all he has passed through, all he has overcome_y
one of the finest men I have ever known.'

' That is the friend, I suppose, whom your
son mentioned to me. But I don't see your
argument, for if there were an all-powerful
God He could have caused the man you speak
of to be as noble and good without passing-
through pain and temptation.'

*But God does not work arbitrarily, but by
laws of progression. Nor does His omnipotence
include the working of contradictions. He can-
not both cause a thing to be and not to be at
the same time. H' it is a law that that which
has grown by struggle and effort shall be most
noble, God will not arbitrarily reverse that law
or truth because the creation of sinless beings
would involve less trouble.'

' It all seems to me so unreal !' exclaimed

rODViv/: Ts^x-^J-

I

284 WE TWO.

Erica. ' It seems like talking of thia air !'

'I expect it does/ said Charles Osmond,
trying to realise to himself her position.

There was a silence.

' How did this man of whom you speak
come to desert our side T asked Erica. ' I sup-
pose, as you say he was one of the finest men
you ever knew, he must, at least, have had a
great intellect. How did he begin to think all
these unlikel}', unreal things true T

'- Donovan began by seeing the grandeur of the
character of Christ. He followed His example
for many years, calling himself all the time an
atheist ; at last he realised that in Christ we see
the Father.'

' I am sorry we lost him if he was such a
Dice man,' was Erica's sole comment. Then
turning her beautiful eyes on Charles Os-
mond she said, * I hope my note did not con-
vey to you more than 1 intended. I asked you
if you would teach me Greek, and I mean to
try to study the character of Christ ; but, quite
to speak the truth, I don't really want to, I only
do it because I see I have not been fair.'

CHARLES OSMOND SPEAKS HIS MIND. 285

' You do it for the sake of being a true truth-
seeker, the best possible reason.'

' I thought you would think I was going to
do it because I hoped to get something. I
thought one of your strong points was that peo-
ple must come in a state of need and expecting
to be satisfied. 1 don't expect anything. I am
only doing it for the sake of honesty and thor-
oughness. I don't expect any good at all.'

' Is it likely that you can expect when you
know so little what is there ? What can you
bring better than a perfectly honest mind to
the search ? Erica_, if I hadnH known that you
were absolutely sincere, I should not have dared
to give you the pain I gave you yesterday. Tt
was my trust in your perfect sincerity which
brought you that strong accusation. Even
then it Avas a sore piece of work.'

' Did you mind it a little V exclaimed Erica.
But, directly she had spoken, she'felt that the
question was absurd, for she saw a look in
Charles Osmond's eyes that made the word
* little' a mockery.

*What makes that man so loving?' she

286 \YE TWO.

thought to herself. ' He reminded me almost
of father, yet I am no child of his, I am
opposed to all that he teaches. I have spoken
my mind out to him in a way which must
sometimes have pained him. Yet he cares
for me so much that it pained him exceed-
ingly to give me pain yesterday !'

His character puzzled her. The loving
breadth, the stern condemnation of whatever
was not absolutely true, the disregard of what
the world said, the hatred of shams, and,
most puzzling of all, the often apparent
struggle with himself, the unceasing effort to
conquer his chief fault. Yet this noble, honest,
intellectual man was labouring under a great
delusion, a delusion which somehow gave him
an extraordinary power of loving ! Ah, no ! it
could not be his Christianity, though, which
made him loving, for were not most Christians
Lard and bitter and narrow-minded ?

'I wish,' she said, abruptly, 'you would tell
me what makes you willing to be friends with
us. I know well enough that the Church
Chronicle has been punishing you for your

CHARLES OSMOND SPEAKS HIS MIND. ^87

defence of my father, and that there must be a
thousand disagreeables to encounter in your own
set just because you visit us. Why do you come?'
* Because I care for you very much.-'
' But you care, too, perhaps, for other people
who will probably cut you for flying in the face
of society and visiting social outcasts.'

' I don't think I can explain it to you yet/
he replied. ' You w^ould only tell me, as you
told me once before, that I was talking riddles
to you. When you have read your Greek
Testament and really studied the life of Christ,
I think you Avill understand. In the meantime,
St. Paul, I think, answers your question better
than I could, but you wouldn't understand even
his words, I fancy. There they are in the
Greek/ — he opened a Testament and showed
her a passage. ' I believe you would think the
English almost as great gibberish as this looks
to you in its unknown characters.'

' Do you advise everyone to learn Greek?'
' No : many have neither time nor ability, and
those who are not apt at languages would
spend their time more usefully over good tran-

288 WE TWO.

slations I think. But you have time and
brains_, so I am very glad to teach you.'

* I am afraid I would much rather it were
for any other purpose !' said Erica. ' I am
somehow weary of the very name of Christ-
ianity. I have heard Avrangling over the
Bible till I am tired to death of it, and dis-
cussions about the Atonement, and the Incar-
nation, and the Resurrection, till the very
words are hateful to me. I am afraid I
shock you, but just put yourself in my place
and imagine how you would feel. It is not
even as if I had to debate the various questions ;
I have merely to sit and listen to a never-ending
dispute.'

^ You sadden me ; but it is quite natural that
you should be weary of such debates. I want
you to realise, though, that in the stormy at-
mosphere of your father's lecture hall, in the
din and strife of controversy, it is impossible
that you should gain any true idea of Christ's
real character. Put aside all thought of the
dogmas you have been wearied with, and study
the life of the Man.'

CHARLES OSMOND SPEAKS HIS MIND, 289

Then the lesson began. It proved a treat to
both teacher and pupil. When Charles Osmond
had left, Erica still worked on.

' I should like, at any rate, to spell out hi&
riddle,' she thought to herself, turning back to
the passage he had shown her. And letter by
letter, and word by word, she made out the
sentence, ' For the love of Christ constraineth
us.'

Was that what had made him come ? Why,
that was the alleged reason for half the persecu-
tions they met with ! Did the love of Christ
constrain Charles Osmond to be their friend^
and at the same time constrain the clergy of

X not many years before to incite the

people to stone her father, and offer him every
possible insult ? Was it possible that the love
of Christ constrained Mr. Osmond to endure
contempt and censure on their behalf, and con-
strained Mr. Randolph to hire a band of roughs
to interrupt her father's speeches ?

* He is a grand exception to the general rule,'
she said to herself. 'If there were many
Christians like him, I should begin to think

VOL. I. U

290 WE TWO.

there must be something more in Christianity
than we thought. Well, if only to please him,
1 must try to study the New Testament over
again, and as thoroughly as I can. No, not to
please him, though, but for the sake of being
perfectly honest. I would much rather be
working at that new book of Tyndall's !'

291

CHAPTER XV.

AN INTERVAL.

How can man love but what he yearns to help ?

R. Browning.

During the year of Erica's illness, Brian began
to realise bis true position towards her better
than he had hitherto done. He saw quite well
that any intrusion of his love, even any slight
manifestation of it, might do untold harm. She
was not ready for it yet — why, he could not
have told.

The truth was, that his Undine, although in
many respects a high-souled woman, was still
in some respects a child. She would have been
merely embarrassed by his love ; she did not
want it. She liked him very much as an ac-
quaintance; he was to her Tom's friend, or her

u2

292 WE TWO.

doctor, or perhaps Mr. Osmond's son. In this
way she liked him, was even fond of him, but
as a lover he wonld have been a perplexing em-
barrassment.

He knew well enough that her frank liking
boded ill for his future success ; but. in spite
of that, he could not help being glad to obtain
any footing with her. It was something even
to be ' Tom's friend Brian.' He delighted in
hearing his name from her lips, although know-
ing that it w^as no good augury. He lived on
from day to day, thinking very little of the
doubtful future as long as he could serve her in
the present. A reserved and silent man, de-
voted to his profession, and to practical science
of every kind, few people guessed that he could
have any particular story of his own. He was
not at all the sort of man who would be expect-
ed to fall hopelessly in love at first sight, nor
would anyone have selected him as a good
modern specimen of the chivalrous knight of
olden times; he was so completely a nineteenth
century man, so progressive, so scientific. But,
though his devotion was of the silent order, it

AN INTERVAL. 293

was, perhaps for tliat reason, all the truer.
There was about him a sort of divine patience.
As long as he could serve Erica, he was content
to wait any number of years in the hope of win-
ning her love. He accepted his position readily.
He knew that she had not the slightest love for
him. He was quite secondary to his father,
even, who was one of Erica's heroes. He liked
to make her talk of him ; her enthusiastic liking
was delightful — perhaps all the more so because
she was far from agreeing with her prophet.
Brian, with the wonderful self-forgetfulness of
true love, liked to hear the praises of all those
whom she admired ; he liked to realise what
were her ideals, even when conscious how far
he fell short of them.

For it was unfortunately true that his was not
the type of character she was most likely to
admire. As a friend she might like him much,
but he could hardly be her hero. His wonder-
ful patience was quite lost upon her ; she hardly
counted patience as a virtue at all. His grand
humility merely perplexed her ; it was at present
far beyond her comprehension. While his

294 WE TWO.

willingness to serve everyone, even in the most
trifling and petty concerns of daily life, she
often attributed to mere good nature. Grand
acts of self-sacrifice she admired enthusiastically,
but the more really difficult round of small
denials and trifling services she did not in the
least appreciate. Absorbed in the contemplation,
as it were, of the Hamlets in life, she had no
leisure to spare for the Horatios.

She proved a capital patient; her whole mind
was set on getting well, and her steady com-
mon-sense and obedience to rules made her a
great favourite with her elder doctor. Really
healthy, and only invalided by the hard work
and trouble she had undergone, seven or eight
months' rest did wonders for her. In the en-
forced quiet, too, she found plenty of time for
study. Charles Osmond had never had a
better pupil. They learnt to know each other
very well during those lessons, and many were
the perplexing questions which Erica started.
But they were not as before a mere repetition
of the difficulties she had been primed with at
her father's lecture-hall, nor did she bring them

AN INTERVAL. 295

forward with the triumphant conviction that
they were unanswerable. They were real,
honest questions, desiring and seeking every-
where for the true answer which might be
somewhere.

The result of her study of the life of Christ
was at first to make her a much better Secular-
ist. She found to her surprise that there was
much in His teaching that entirely harmonised
with Secularism ; that, in fact, He spoke a great
deal about the improvement of this world, and
scarcely at all about that place in the clouds of
which Christians made so much. By the end of
a year she had also reached the conviction that,
whatever interpolations there might be in the
gospels, no untrue writer, no admiring but dis-
honest narrator, could have conceived such a
character as that of Christ. For she had dug
down to the very root of the matter. She had
left for the present the, to her, perplexiog and
almost irritating catalogue of miracles, and had
begun to perceive the streogth and indomitable
courage_, the grand self-devotion, the all-em-
bracing love of the Man. Very superJScial had

296 WE TWO.

been her former view. He had been to her a
shadowy, unreal bein^, soft and gentle, even a
little effeminate, speaking sometimes what seem-
ed to her narrow words about only saving the
lost sheep of the house of Israel. A character
somehow wanting in that Power and Intellect
which she worshipped.

But on a really deep study she saw how
greatly she had been mistaken. Extraordinarily
mistaken, both as to the character and the teach-
ing. Christ was without doubt a grand ideal !
To be as broad-hearted as he was, as universally
loving — it would be no bad aim ! And, as in
daily life Erica realised how hard was the
practice of that love, she realised at the same
time the loftiness of the ideal, and the weakness
of her own powers.

' But, though I do begin to see why you take
this man as your ideal,' she said, one day, to
Charles Osmond, ' I cannot, of course, accept a
great deal that He is said to have taught. When
He speaks of love to men, that is understandable,
one can try to obey ; but when He speaks about
God, then, of course, I can only think that He

AN INTERVAL. 297

was cl eluded. You may admire Joau of Arc,
and see the great beauty of her character, yet
at the same time believe, that she was acting
under a delusion ; you may admire the charac-
ter of Gotama without considering Buddhism
the true religion ; and so with Christ, I may
reverence and admire His character while believ-
ing Him to have been mistaken.'

Charles Osborn smiled. He knew from many
trifling signs, unnoticed by others, that Erica
would have given a great deal to see her way
to an honest acceptance of that teaching of
Christ which spoke of an unseen but everywhere
present Father of all, of the everlastingness of
love, of a reunion with those who are dead.
She hardly allowed to herself that she longed
to believe it, she dreaded the least concession
to that natural craving, she distrusted her own
truthfulness, feared above all things that she
might be deluded, might imagine that to be
true which was in reality false.

And, happily, her prophet was too wise to
attempt in any way to quicken the work
which was going on within her ; he was one of

298 WE TWO.

those rare men who can be, even in such a case,
content to wait. He would as soon have
thought of digging up a seed to see whether he
could not quicken its slow development of root
and stem, as of interfering in any way with
Erica. He came and went, taught her Greek,
and always^ day after day, week after week,
month after mouth, however much pressed by
his parish work, however harassed by private
troubles, he came to her with the genial sym-
pathy, the broad-hearted readiness to hear
calmly all sides of the question, which had
struck Erica so much the very first time she had
met him.

The other members of the family liked him
almost as well, although they did not know him
so intimatel}' as Erica. Aunt Jean, who had at
first been a little prejudiced against him, ended
by singing his praises more loudly than anyone,
perhaps conquered in spite of herself by the
man's extraordinary power of sympathy, his
ready perception of good even in those with
whom he disagreed most.

Mrs. Craigie was in many respects very like

AN INTERVAL. 299

her brother, and was a very useful worker,
though much of her work was little seen.
She did not speak in public ; all the oratorical
powers of the family seemed to have concen-
trated themselves in Luke Raeburn ; but she
wrote and worked indefatigably, proving a
very useful second to her brother. A hard,
wearing life, however, had told a good deal
upon her, and trouble had somewhat embittered
her nature. She had not the vein of humour
which had stood Raeburn in such good stead.
Severely matter-of-fact, and almost despising
those who had any poetry in their nature, she
did not always agree very w^ell with Erica.
The two loved each other sincerely, and
were far too loyal both to clan and creed to
allow their difierences really to separate them ;
but there was, undoubtedly, something in their
natures which jarred. Even Tom found it hard
at times to bear the strong infusion of bitter
criticism which his mother introduced into the
home atmosphere. He was something of a
philosopher, however, and knowing that she
had been through great trouble, and had had

300 WE TWO.

nnich to try her, he made up his mind that it
was natural — therefore inevitable — therefore to
be borne.

The home life was not without its frets and
petty trials, but on one point there was perfect
accord. All were devoted to the head of the
house — would have sacrificed anything to bring
him a few minutes' peace.

As for Raeburn, when not occupied in actual
conflict, he lived in a sort of serene atmosphere
of thought and study, far removed from all the
small differences and little cares of his house-
hold. They invariably smoothed down all such
roughnesses in his presence, and probably in
any case he would have been unable to see such
microscopic grievances ; unless, indeed, they
left any shade of annoyance on Erica's face,
and then his fatherhood detected at once w^hat
^vas wrong.

It would be tediouSj however, to follow the
course of Erica's life for the next three years,
for^ though the time was that of her chief men-
tal growth, her days were of the quietest. Not
till she was two and twenty did she fully re-

AN INTERVAL. 301

cover from the effects of her sudden sorrow and
the subsequent overwork. In the meantime,
her father's influence steadily deepened and
spread throughout the country, and troubles
multiplied.

302

CHAPTER XVI.

HYDE PARK.

Who spouts his message to the wilderness,
Lightens his soul and feels one burden less ;
But to the people preach, and you will find
They'll pay you back with thanks ill to your mind.
Goethe. Translated by J. S. B.

Hyde Park is a truly national property, and it
is amusing and perhaps edifying to note the
various uses to which it is often put. In the
morning it is the rendezvous of nurses and
children ; in the afternoon of a fashionable
throng ; on Sunday evenings it is the resort of
hard-working men and women, who have to
content themselves with getting a breath of
fresh air once a week. But, above all, the park
is the meeting-place of the people, the place for
mass meetings and monster demonstrations.

HYDE PARK. 303

On a bright day in June, when the trees
were still in their freshest green^ the crowd of
wealth and fashion had beaten an ignominious
retreat before a great political demonstration
to be held that afternoon.

Everyone knew that the meeting would be
a very stormy one, for it related to the most
burning question of the day^ a question which
was hourly growing more and more moment-
ous, and which for the time had divided Eng-
land into two bitterly opposed factions.

These years which Erica had passed so quiet-
ly had been eventful years for the country,
years of strife and bloodshed, years of reckless
expenditure, years which deluded some and en-
raged others, provoking most bitter animosity
between the opposing parties. The question
was not a class question, and a certain number
of the working classes and a large number of
the London roughs warmly espoused the cause
of that party which appealed to their love of
power and to a selfish patriotism. The Hyde
Park meeting would inevitably be a turbulent
one. Those who wished to run no risk remain-

304 WE TWO.

ed at home ; Rotten Row was deserted ; the car-
riage road almost empty ; while from the gate-
way there poured in a never-ending stream of
people — some serious-looking, some eager and
excited, some with a dangerously vindictive
look, some merely curious. Every now and
then the more motley and disorderly crowd was
reinforced by a club with its brass band and
banners^ and gradually the mass of human
beings grew from hundreds to a thousand^
from one thousand to many thousands, until,
indeed, it became almost impossible to form
any idea of the actual numbers, so enormous
was the gathering.

' We shall have a bad time of it to-day/ re-
marked Raeburn to Brian, as they forced their
way on. ' If Tm not very much mistaken, too,
we are vastly outnumbered.'

He looked round the huge assembly from his
vantage ground of six foot four, his cool intre-
pidity not one whit shaken by the knowledge
that, by what he was about to saj, he should
draw dowai on his ow^n head all the wrath of the
roughest portion of the crowd.

HYDE PARK. 305

* 'Twill be against fearful odds !' said Tom,
elbowing vigorously to keep up with his com-
panion.

' We fear nae foe !' said Raebnrn, quoting his
favourite motto. ' And_, after all, it w^ere no
bad end to die protesting against wicked rapa-
city, needless bloodshed.'

His eye kindled as he thought of the protest
he hoped to make ; his heart beat high as ho
looked round upon the throng so largely com-
posed of those hostile to himself. Was there
not a demand for his superabundant energy?
a demand for the tremendous powers of endur-
ance, of influence, of devotion which w^ere stor-
ed up within him? As an athlete joys in trying
a difficult feat, as an artist jo^^s in attempting a
lofty subject, so Raeburn, in his consciousness
of power, in his absolute conviction of truth,
joyed in the prospect of a most dangerous
conflict.

Brian, w^atching him presently from a little
distance, could not wonder at the immense influ-
ence he had gained in the country. The mere
physique of the man was wonderfully impressive
VOL. I. X

306 WE TWO.

— the strong, rugged Scottish face, the latent
power conveyed in his whole bearing. He
was no demagogue, he never flattered the
people ; he preached indeed a somewhat severe
creed, but, even in his sternest mood, the hold
he got over the people, the power he had of
raising the most degraded to a higher level,
was simply marvellous. It was not likely,
however, that his protest of to-day would lead
to anything but a free fight. If he could
make himself effectually heard, he cared very
little for what followed. It was necessary
that a protest should be made, and he was
the right man to make it ; therefore, come ill
or well, he would go through with it, and,
if he escaped with his life, — so much the better !
The meeting began. A moderate speaker
was heard without interruption, but, the instant
Raeburn stood up, a chorus of yells arose. For
several minutes he made no attempt to speak ;
but his dignity seemed to grow in proportion
with the indignities offered him. He stood
there towering above the crowd like a rock of
strength, scanning the thousands of faces with

HYDE PARK. 307

the steady gaze of one who in thinkiDg of the
progress of the race has lost all consciousness
of his own personality. He had come there to
protest against injustice, to use his vast strength
for others, to spend and be spent for millions,
to die if need be ! Raeburn was made of the stuff
of which martyrs are made; standing there face
to face with an angry crowd, which might at
any moment break loose and trample him to
death or tear him in pieces, his heart was never-
theless all aglow with the righteousness of his
causOj with the burning desire to make an avail-
ing protest against an evil which was desolat-
ing thousands of homes.

The majesty of his calmness began to influ-
ence the mob; the hisses and groans died away
into silence, such comparative silence^ that is,
as was compatible with the greatness of the
assembly. Then Raeburn braced himself up ;
dignified before, he now seemed even more erect
and stately. The knowledge that for the
moment he had that huge crowd entirely under
control was stimulating in the highest degree.
In a minute his stentorian voice was ringing out

x2

308 WE TWO.

fearlessly into the vast arena ; thousands of
hearts were vibrating to his impassioned appeal.
To each one it seemed as if he individually were
addressed.

* You who call yourselves Englishmen, I come
to appeal to you to-day ! You who call your-
selves freeman, I come to tell you that you are
acting like slaves.'

Then with rare tact he alluded to the strong-
est points of the British character, touching
with consummate skill the vulnerable parts of
his audience. He took for granted that their
aims were pure, their standard lofty, and by the
very supposition raised for the time the most
abject of his hearers, inspired them with his own
enthusiasm.

Presently when he felt secure enough to ven-
ture it, when the crowd was absolutely hanging
on his words with breathless attention, he ap-
pealed no longer directly to the people, but drew,
in graphic language, the picture of the desola-
tions brought by war. The simplicity of his
phrases, his entire absence of showiness or bom-
bast, made his influence indescribably deep and

HYDE PARK. 309

powerful. A mere ranter, a frothy mob orator,
would have been silenced long before.

But this man had somehow got hold of the
great assembly, had conquered them by sheer
force of will : in a battle of one will against
thousands the one had conquered, and would
hold its own till it had administered the hard
home-thrust which would make the thousands
wince and retaliate.

Now under the power of that ' sledge-ham-
mer Saxon,' that marvellously graphic picture
of misery and bereavement, hard-headed, and
hitherto hard-hearted men were crying like chil-
dren. Then came the rugged, unvarnished state-
ment shouted forth in the speaker's sternest voice.

' All this is being done in your name, men of
England! not only in your name, but at your
cost ! You are responsible for this bloodshed,
this misery! How long is it to go on? How
long are you free men going to allow yourselves
to be bloody executioners ? How long are you
to be slavish followers of that grasping ambition
which veils its foulness under the fair name of
patriotism V

310 ^YE TWO.

Loud murmurs began to arise at this, and
the orator knew that the ground-swell betokened
the coming storm. He proceeded with tenfold
energy, his words came down like hailstones,
"with a fiery indignation he delivered his
mighty philippic, in a torrent of forceful words
he launched out the most tremendous denunci-
ation he had ever uttered.

The string had been gradually w^orked up to
its highest possible teusion ; at length when the
strain was the greatest it suddenly snapped.
Eaeburn's will had held all those thousands in
check; he had kept his bitterest enemies
hanging on his words ; he had lashed them into
fury, and still kept his grip over them ; he had
worked them up, gaining more and more power
over them, till at length, as he shouted forth the
last words of a grand peroration, the bitter-
ness and truth of his accusations proved keen-
er than his restraining influence.

He had foreseen that the spell would break,
he knew the instant it was broken. A mo-
ment before, and he had been able to sway
that huge crowd as he pleased ; now he was

HYDE PARK. 311

at their mercy. No will-power, no force of
language, no strength of earnestness or truth
would avail him now. All that he had to trust
to was his immense physical strength, and what
was that when measured against thousands !

He saw the dangerous surging movement ia
the sea of heads, and knew only too well what
it betokened. With a frightful yell of mingled
hatred and execration, the seething human mass
bore down upon him ! His own followers and
friends did what they could for him, but that
was very little. His case was desperate. Desper-
ation, however, inspires some people with an
almost superhuman energy. Life was sweet,
and that day he fought for his life. The very
shouting and hooting of the mob, the roar of
the angry multitude, which might well have
filled even a brave man with panic, stimulated
him, strengthened him to resist to the utter-
most.

He fought like a lion, forcing his way
through the furious crowd, attacked in the
most brutal way on every side, yet ever strug-
gling on if only by inches. Never once did

312 WE TWO.

his steadfastness waver, never for a single in-
stant did his spirit sink. His unfailing presence
of mind enabled him to get through what
would have been impossible to most men, his
great height and strength stood him in good
stead, w^iile the meanness and the injustice of
the attack, the immense odds against which he
was fighting, nerved him for the struggle.

It was more like a hideous nightmare than
a piece of actual life, those fierce tiger faces
swarming around, that roar of vindictive anger,
that frightful crushing, that hail-storm of savage
blows ! But, whether life or nightmare, it must
be gone through with. In the thick of the
fight a line of Goethe came to his mind, one of
his favourite mottos, — ' Make good thy stand-
ing-place and move the world.'

ilnd even then he half-smiled to himself at
the forlornness of the hope that he should ever
need a standing-place again.

With renewed vigour he fought his way on,
and with a sort of glow of triumph and new-
born hope had almost seen his way to a place
of comparative safety, when a fearful blow hope-

HYDE PARK. 313

lesslj maimed him. With a vaia struggle to
save himself he fell to the earth, — a vision of
fierce faces, green leaves, and blue sky flashed
before his eyes, an inward vision of Erica, a
moment's agony, and then the surging crowd
closed over him, and he knew no more.

END OF THE FIRST VOLUME.

LONDON : PRINTED BY DUNCAN MACDONALD, BLF.NHKTM HOUSE.

8^'

pmJ:^'^^'^l

;-■.,« VlLk^